THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES 


UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES 


BY 


OLIVE  E   DANA 


"It  seems  as  if  the  heroes  have  done  almost  all  for  the 
world  that  they  can  do,  and  not  much  more  can  come  till 
common  men  awake  and  take  their  common  tasks." 

.Broofcs. 


"The  healing  of  the  world 
Is  in  its  nameless  saints.    Each  separate  star 
Seems  nothing,  but  a  myriad  scattered  stars 
Break  up  the  night  and  make  it  beautiful." 

—Bayard  Taylor. 


AUGUSTA,   MAINE 

UUKLEIGH  &  FLYNT,  PKIXTEKS 

1894 


Copyright,  1894 
BY  OLIVE  E.  DANA 

All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Miss  Esther 9 

His  Last  Battle 26 

A  Thanksgiving  Distribution 38 

An  Old  Song 51 

Deacon  Lane's  Strawberry  Bed 65 

A  Tardy  Valentine 80 

A  Fast-Day  Sermon 94 

Simon  deal's  Charity 104 

Free  and  Equal 118 

A  Christmas  Message 129 

One  Easter  Day 140 

In  Saint  Valentine's  Tongue 155 

A  Flower  Mission 1G8 

A  Belated  Thanksgiving 178 

Luther's  Inheritance 198 

Aimer's  Way 217 

ll.-r  Gifts 2-2!) 

Why  Not? .     243 

Deacon  Farewell's  Thanksgiving 252 

Grandmother  McLean's  Vacation 264 

Miss  Hannah's  Harvesting 279 

The  Sermon  David  Train  Heard  on  Memorial  Day  291 


1702087 


PROEM. 


Just  as  they  earne  to  me,  I  write  them  here,— 

These  homely  tales  of  simple,  friendly  folk 
Whose  hidden  hearth-fires  breathe  the  wreathed  smoke 

That  tells  of  home,  warmth,  love,  when  skies  are  drear: 
Whose  tranquil  faith  and  unstrained  virtue  calm 

Life's  fevered  pulse  like  some  familiar  psalm  : 
Who  make  us  feel  how  royal  goodness  is, 

How  worthless  all  men  gather,  lacking  this; 
Who  keep  for  us,  despite  Time's  swift  mischance, 

Our  dear  New  England's  best  inheritance. 

o.  E.  r>. 

An;rsTA,  October  16,  1S94. 


UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 


MISS  ESTHER. 


Close  beside  a  range  of  low,  lovely  moun 
tains  that  seem  to  impart  to  the  place  some 
thing  of  their  own  permanence  and  serenity, 
even  when  the  whirr  of  the  mill-wheels  is 
loudest,  the  crowd  of  employes  at  the  factory 
gates  and  along  dingy  Broad  Street  thickest 
and  noisiest,  Ashland  lifts  its  spires  and  chim 
neys,  breathing  the  hot  air  of  its  activities 
into  the  cool,  calm  air  of  the  hills. 

It  is  a  quaint  little  city,  with  Swift  River 
dashing  through  its  midst,  heaping  masses  of 
foam  upon  its  rocky  shores,  and  turning  the 
wheels  of  a  score  of  manufactories,  lesser  and 
greater.  Shoddy  tenements,  showy  stores, 
and  shops  of  all  grades  have  sprung  up  inevit 
ably  around  them,  now  and  then  a  finer  block 
or  statelier  residence,  or  the  square  tower  of 
a  schoolhouse,  giving  promise  of  better  things. 

2 


10  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

The  older  portion  of  the  town  is  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  and  farther  away, 
opposite  the  hills,  upon  which  it  gains  thereby 
the  larger  outlook.  Its  streets,  too,  are  higher 
and  wider,  and  the  old-fashioned  houses  stand 
far  apart  along  elm-shaded  roads  that  in  a 
more  aspiring  place  would  lie  called  "ave 
nues,"  and  are  even  now  taking  that  name  in 
the  speech  of  the  younger  generation. 

In  this  part,  however,  is  the  railroad  sta 
tion,  for  Ashland  is  the  terminus  of  a  well 
known  road,  and  this  arrangement,  while  it 
brings  a  daily  stir  and  renewal  of  life  to  Old 
Ashland,  as  the  older  part  of  the  town  is 
called,  gives  the  visitor  or  traveller  a  far 
pleasanter  impression  of  the  little  city  than  he 
would  at  first  receive  if  it  were  otherwise. 
For  on  his  right,  just  far  enough  removed  to 
render  their  less  pleasing  features  less  con 
spicuous,  are  the  blocks  and  stores,  the  storied 
mills,  the  clustered  houses,  and  the  back 
ground  of  blue  hills,  and  on  the  left,  and 
nearer,  the  wide  home-like  streets  and  com 
fortable  mansions  that  New  Englanders  made 
sure  of  a  century  ago. 

It  was  in  this  guise  that  Ashland  showed 
itself  to  the  passengers  of  the  late  afternoon 
train  one  day  in  early  winter,  its  rows  of  glow 
ing  windows  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  scat- 


MISS    ESTHER.  11 

tered  home-lights  so  near  by  on  the  other, 
making  cheerful  welcome,  signals  as  the  long 
train  rumbled  slowly  into  the  open  station. 

To  one  pair  of  eyes,  looking  out  steadily 
yet  absently  upon  town,  and  hills,  and  glow 
ing  sunset  skies,  the  scene  was  familiar  enough. 
Sixty  years  had  been  spent  in  this  environ 
ment,  which  seemed  still  to  compass  the  m'ost 
and  best  of  life's  duties,  opportunities,  joys. 
Just  why,  even  Miss  Esther  Mortimer  herself 
could  hardly  have  told  you. 

She  watched,  to-night,  with  eyes  that  had 
an  unanswered  question  in  them,  the  lights 
flash  out,  one  after  another,  and  the  streets 
open  below,  till,  as  the  train  jerked  itself  to  a 
standstill,  the  whole  village  showed  itself  with 
unexpected  distinctness. 

There  is  a  connection,  slenderer  and  subtler 
than  causation,  between  the  outer  and  the 
inner  vision,  as  if  the  gates  of  sight  swinging 
wider,  set  open  some  psychical  avenue,  and 
let  in  an  unlocked  for  perception  or  aspira 
tion.  Some  such  message  might  have  come 
to  Miss  Esther,  for  a  new  satisfaction  and  a 
new  eagerness  came  together  into  her  gray 
eyes,  and  she  sat  quite  still  though  her  fellow 
travellers  were  jostling  each  other  in  the  car 
aisles.  Was  it  that  bit  of  purple  sky  chang- 


12  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

ing  to  softest  gray  above  the  darkening  hills, 
the  amber  of  the  clouds,  dispersing  now  and 
fading  slowly,  that  detained  her?  Or  the  fine 
lines  of  that  piece  of  hemlock  woods, — her 
own — left  standing  at  the  right  of  the  largest 
factory,  with  the  slenderer  birches  beside 
them,  and  the  sunset  light  shining  through? 
Or  it  may  have  been  just  the  effective  grouping 
of  the  village  lights,  near  and  far,  and  the  fine 
effect  of  the  factory  windows, — there  were  two 
or  three  of  the  larger  buildings  unlighted,  but 
these  were  not  noticeable,  at  dusk, — and  it 
was,  indeed,  upon  this  portion  of  the  town 
that  her  eyes  lingered  longest. 

But  Miss  Mortimer's  gray  horses,  that  had 
been  stamping  on  the  other  side  of  the  plat 
form  since  the  train  had  just  whistled,  "be 
trayed  a  livelier  impatience,  and  James  Stack- 
pole,  himself,  their  staid  driver,  was  as  restive 
as  they,  Miss  Mortimer  could  see. 

"And  Martha  Storlett  will  think  I  have 
given  out  on  the  journey,  or  else  stayed  over. 
I  don't  know  but  James  thinks  I'm  not  able  to 
get  out,  for  he's  coming  to  look  for  me.  I 
must  go,  though  I've  found  just  what  I  was 
looking  for, — all  mapped  out  and  planned. 
Well,  it  will  keep,  now  I've  got  it." 

With  wThich  enigmatical  words  Miss  Esther 
left  the  car,  and,  a  moment  later,  alert,  self- 


MISS    ESTHER.  13 

possessed  and  kindly,  was  entering  her  car 
riage,  and  giving  her  checks  to  the  vigilant 
James,  while  ten  minutes  afterwards  she  stood 
in  her  own  hall,  shaking  hands  with  Martha 
Storlett  and  hoping  her  supper  had  not  been 
kept  waiting. 

"The  train  was  rather  late,  and  I — didn't 
hurry." 

"And  how  are  you,  Miss  Esther?  Any  bet 
ter?  asked  Martha,  a  note  of  anxiety  in  her 
brisk  voice. 

"No  worse,  certainly,"  said  Miss  Mortimer, 
with  a  smile  singularly  sweet  for  a  face  so 
reserved.  "I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  after  sup 
per,  Martha.  Just  now  I  do  believe  I'm  hun 
gry." 

And  Martha,  reassured  more  by  her  mis 
tress's  voice  and  manner  than  by  her  words  or 
her  pale  and  really  wreary  face,  returned  to  her 
own  realm,  content. 

An  hour  later  the  two  women  sat  together 
in  a  room  whose  quaint,  well-kept  furniture, — 
softened  into  ease  by  luxurious  accessories  of 
a  later  date,  and  by  a  cheerfully  tranquil  atmos 
phere  intensified  by  the  open  fire,  the  rows  of 
books,  the  orderly  litter  of  periodicals,  the 
pungent  fragrance  of  crimson  pinks, — seemed 
in  keeping  with  each,  and  harmonized  their 


14  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

unlikenesses,  as  long-wonted  things  and  the 
atmosphere  they  make,  will  often  do. 

"You  want  to  know  all  about  it,  Martha,  I 
suppose?"  queried  Miss  Mortimer  from  her 
easy-chair. 

And  Martha ,  plying  her  knitting-needles  vig 
orously  in  a  straight-backed  rocker,  nodded 
assent,  adding,  in  a  disapproving  interrogation  : 

"You  went  to  the  hotel  ?" 

"Xo,  not  to  stay.  I  had  lunch  there, — the 
train  gets  in  at  noon,  you  know,  and  I  left  my 
things  there  at  first.  But, — Martha,  do  you 
remember  Mary  Duncan  ?" 

"Mary  Henderson  that  was?   Yes,  indeed." 

"Well,"  went  on  Miss  Mortimer,  clasping 
her  hands  and  gazing  into  the  grate, — "You 
see,  I  had  to  have  a  veil, — my  last  one  gave 
out  last  week  and  Miss  Slocum  never  has  any 
thing  of  that  sort  one  would  wear, — so  I  went 
into  Record's  to  get  it  and  to  leave  an  order. 
That  was  on  my  way  to  Dr.  Prescott.  I  saw 
Madame  first,  and  she  called  a  young  girl  to 
pin  the  veil, — it  was  unmanageable,  they  al 
ways  are.  I  did  not  notice  her  at  first,  save 
that  she  had  a  soft  voice  that  somehow  seemed 
familiar,  and  a  nice  manner.  But  when  I 
turned  to  look  at  her  I  stood  shock-still.  'Mary 
Henderson  !'  I  said,  and  put  out  both  hands. 


MISS   ESTHER.  15 

I  hadn't  had  my  lunch  then,  nor  seen  the  doc 
tor,  and  I  think  I  was  a  little  weak  and  con 
fused. 

"  'Mary  Henderson  Duncan,'  she  said.  That 
was  my  mother's  name.'  She  looked  pleased, 
but  she  wouldn't  take  the  least  advantage  of 
my  Rip  Van  Winkle  blunder.  'Mary  Hender 
son,'  I  said,  'was  my  dear  friend, — my  dear 
est  friend.  And  I  haven't  seen  or  heard  from 
her  in  years.  Does  she  live  in  town,  and  will 
you  give  me  her  address?  I  should  like  to  call 
on  her.'  So  she  told  me  where  they  lived,  and 
said, — she  is  as  proud  as  she  is  pretty, — 'She 
will  be  very  glad  to  see  Miss  Mortimer.'  And 
I  came  away  and  went  to  the  doctor's — I'll  tell 
you  about  that  next, — and  the  first  person  I 
saw  in  his  reception  room  was  Mary  herself. 
She  had  her  youngest  child  there,  his  eyes  are 
bad.  And  she  knew  me,  and  found  out  that  I 
was  at  the  St.  James,  and  guessed  what  my 
errand  was,  and  made  me  telephone  for  my 
things  and  go  home  with  her.  I  had  the  best 
visit,  Martha, — with  just  her  and  the  children, 
— their  father  died,  you  know,  years  ago.  Yes, 
they  are  poor,  that  is  they  maintain  themselves, 
with  her  little  income.  And  Mary  herself 
helps ;  she  is  secretary  and  half-manager,  I 
should  think,  of  one  of  the  charitable  societies. 


16  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

It  just  suits  her,  and  brings  her  in  the  way  of 
helping  a  great  many  people, — all  sorts,  in  all 
soils  of  ways.  And  I  don't  suppose  they  can 
afford  to  despise  the  small  salary  she  gets, 
either,  though  she  doesn't  work  for  that." 

"But  about  the  doctor,  what  did  he  say?" 
said  Martha,  smoothing  her  black  silk  apron 
and  waiting  for  what  was  to  her,  relatively  of 
much  more  importance. 

"Oh !  he  said  it  wasn't  a  settled  disease,  he 
thought,  though  it  might  easily  become  so,  at 
my  age,  and  with  my  heredity  and  habits. 
And  he  said  I  must  avoid  exposure,  of  course, 
—I  always  do, — and  fatigue.  And  that  I  must 
have  diversion  and  companionship,  interesting 
occupation,  cheerful  society  and  all  that.  Oh, 
and  that  I  must  take  nourishment  frequently. 
He  proposed  Florida,  or  California,  this  win 
ter,  and  Europe  next  summer.  Wanted  to 
know  if  I  hadn't  relatives  or  friends  in  the 
South.  Suggested  a  sanitarium,  in  Colorado, 
I  believe,  but  admitted  afterwards  that  a  change 
was  in  no  wise  necessary,  if  the  other  condi 
tions  were  met." 

"And  what  will  you  do?"  asked  Martha, 
eagerly.  "There's  your  cousin  John  in  San 
Francisco,  and  Harry  in  Carolina.  They'd  be 
delighted  if  you'd  visit  them." 


MISS    ESTHER.  17 

"But  I  am  not  going  to, — now  !"  said  Miss 
Mortimer,  with  vigorous  emphasis.  "Home  is 
best,  sick  or  well,  forme,  especially  when  I'm 
half-sick.  Why,  Martha  Storlett,  do  you  know 
what  tiresome,  inane,  nerve-wearing  work  it  is 
to  visit,  visit,  visit,  a  season  through?  And 
do  you  know  that  any  number  of  maids,  and 
preparatory  telegrams,  and  fees,  and  'tips,'  and 
what  not,  wouldn't  make  me  so  comfortable  as 
I  am  this  blessed  minute  ?" 

"I  know  it,"  said  Martha,  in  doubtful  agree 
ment, — "but  the  society,  and  the  amusement, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it, — you  can't  get  those  in 
Ashland?" 

"Depends  on  what  you  mean  by  'em,"  said 
Miss  Mortimer,  laconically. 

"Martha,"  she  said  presently,  after  a  pause, 
— a  perplexed  silence  to  Martha,  a  thoughtful 
one  to  her, — "Martha,  do  you  know  a  pretty, 
dark-eyed  girl,  slender  and  rather  sober,  that 
goes  to  our  own  church?  She  wears,  I  remem 
ber,  a  blue  suit,  dark  blue  and  very  plain,  and 
sits  in  a  side-pew." 

Then  as  Martha  shook  her  head,  she  went 
on, 

"She  was  on  the  train  to-day.  I  think  she 
gives  music  lessons  somewhere  not  far  away. 
I  was  thinking  that  if  I  knew  her  well  enongh, 


18  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

I'd  ask  her  to  pour  chocolate  at  some  of  my 
teas  this  winter.  She'd  be  just  the  one,  I 
fancy.  But  Frances  Butler  will  do." 

"  Your  teas  !  "  ejaculated  Martha .  "I  thought 
you  had  got  to  keep  quiet  and  take  care  of 
yourself,  and — have  a  good  time,  if  you  could 
this  winter." 

"That's  just  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  said 
Miss  Esther,  calmly,"  and  the  'afternoons'  are 
a  part  of  it." 

"Martha,"  she  went  on,  after  a  moment,  in  a 
changed  tone,  "do  you  know  they  say  it's 
going  to  be  a  very  hard  winter,  even  here  in 
Ashland?  That  three  of  the  largest  mills 
have  stopped  running,  that  trade  is  very  dull, 
and  that  help  is  being  constantly  turned  away 
from  the  stores  and  offices?  Martha,  I  cannot 
bear  to  estimate  how  many  people  there  must 
be  in  Ashland,  our  old  Ashland,  who  literally 
will  not  be  able  to  afford  three  meals  a  day, 
or  two,  this  winter  !  And  Martha,  how  much 
idle  capital,  yes,  capital,  that  is  accumulating 
at  a  comfortable  rate,  do  you  suppose  is  rep 
resented  on  this  street  ?  No,  I  shall  not  tell 
you  ;  you  wouldn't  believe  it.  I  am  ashamed 
of  it,  myself.  And  you  might  multiply  it  by 
three,  and  not  count  all  Ashland's  unused 
property." 


MISS   ESTHER.  19 

"But,  dear  Miss  Esther,"  Martha  interjected, 
anxiously,  as  Miss  Mortimer  paused  for  breath. 
"You  cannot  help  it !  You  are  willing  to 
do  your  part.  It  may  not  be  so  bad  as  you 
think.  And  you  are  not  to  blame.  What 
can  you  do  ?" 

"I  can  do  my  part,"  Miss  Mortimer  an 
swered.  "I  ani  not  sure  yet  what  that  is — all 
of  it.  But  I  will  have  my  teas, — I  think, 
somehow,  they  will  help  us  to  find  out." 

"Indeed,  Martha,"  she  said,  eagerly,  as  the 
other  was  about  to  protest,  "I  must  have  my 
way.  I  do  not  think  Dr.  Prescott  would  like 
to  have  me  crossed.  And  didn't  he  say  I 
must  have  interesting  occupation  and  society  ?" 

"I  do  not  see,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  moment, 
"how  people,  rich  people,  can  bear  to  econo 
mize  this  year  of  all  years  !  I  know  we  are 
talked  to  as  if  it  were  a  cardinal  virtue.  But 
if  we  economize  in  expenditures  that  are 
everyday  matters,  for  us,  somebody,  a  good 
many  somebodies,  must  starve  !  Why, Martha, 
I  fancy  what  1  should  spend  this  winter,  if  it 
were  no  more  than  usual,  and  just  for  my 
ordinary  luxuries, — 1  didn't  put  the  two  words 
together,  first, — would  make  a  difference,  so 
far  as  it  goes.  And  if  I  choose  to  make  it  a 
little  more  than  usual,  in  certain  quarters, — I 


20  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

shall  take  care  whom  it  goes  to,  you  may  be 
sure, — and  do  my  best  not  to  have  it  a  dull 
winter  in  Ashland,  socially  speaking,  why  it 
may  even  make  the  other  dullness  a  little  less 
terrible,  don't  you  think?  At  any  rate,  I 
sha'n't  draw  on  my  banker  for  twice  what  I 
usually  use  in  a  season  and  go  off  to  California 
or  Carolina  with  it !" 

So  it  came  about  that  the  winter  in  Ashland 
society  did  not  promise  to  be  so  very  dull 
after  all.  It  was  the  old  story  of  the  ball  once 
set  rolling; — there  were  a  score  of  hands  easrer 

o  O 

to  keep  it  in  motion,  whose  owners,  most  of 
them,  did  not  guess  on  what  a  beneficent  mis 
sion  it  had  been  started,  or  how  near  the  game 
came  to  being  "in  earnest." 

People  did  notice  that  Miss  Mortimer  was 
going  into  company  more  than  usual, — she 
was  giving  a  series  of  delightful  "At  Homes." 
One  couldn't  afford  to  miss  them,  and  every 
one,  really,  was  there.  They  were  so  charm 
ing  !  Something  new  or  unusual  every  week  ; 
you  never  could  tell  what  she  would  have 
next.  Some  of  the  things  were  odd,  and  some 
times  very  "common"  people  took  part,  but 
Miss  Mortimer  could  afford  to  do  those  things. 

Some  of  this  comment,  indeed,  most  of  it, 
at  one  time  or  another,  came  to  Miss  Morti- 


MISS    ESTHER.  21 

mer's  own  ears,  but  she  only  smiled  and  went 
on  her  way  serenely,  and  went  all  the  more 
confidently  to  invite  May  Burton,  the  janitor's 
pretty,  gifted  daughter,  to  sing  the  next  week, 
stopping  meanwhile  to  ask  the  earnest  little 
artist,  Jenny  Fay,  to  spend  a  few  days  at 
"The  Oaks"  a  little  later. 

"I  must  see  your  work,"  she  said,  graciously. 
"I  used  to  draw  myself.  And  my  friends  will 
enjoy  it." 

Of  course  there  were  those  among  Miss 
Mortimer's  guests  who  recognized  these  young 
people  as  her  protegees,  and  divined  her  kindly 
purposes,  and  made  both  them  and  herself 
conscious  of  their  knowledge  of  these  facts. 
But  Miss  Mortimer's  tact  and  her  spirited 
repartee  never  failed  to  be  equal  to  the  occa 
sion,  and,  for  the  most  part,  her  intent  was 
too  brave  and  genuine,  and  the  spirit  of  good 
will  and  brotherhood  it  evoked  too  potent  to 
allow  of  other  than  the  friendliest  comment. 

"They  think  I  don't  know  they  say  I  have 
all  sorts,"  she  said  one  day  to  Martha.  "That's 
just  what  I  mean  to  have.  Ashland  people 
had  pretty  nearly  forgotten  they  were  of  one 
flesh,  or  that  there  could  be  anything  in  com 
mon  between  some  folks  and  other  folks." 

"And  they  find,  now  and  then,  there  aint 
such  a  great  difference  between  'em,  after  all," 


22  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

added  Martha,  smiling  grimly.  "But  where's 
that  girl  you  were  speaking  of?  Did  you 
ever  find  out  her  name,  Miss  Mortimer?  Or 
anything  more  about  her." 

"Her  name,"  said  Miss  Esther,  briefly,  is 
Henderson,  Ruth  Henderson." 

And  Martha  asked  no  more.  Her  ready 
and  still  sensitive  perception  supplied  what 
had  not  been  told,  and  she  awaited  further 
developments  with  a  half-resentful  interest. 

The  Hendersons  were  an  old  Ashland  fam 
ily,  of  whom  Mary  Duncan  and  her  family, 

and  their  young  cousin  Ruth  were  now  the  only 
representatives.  John  Henderson  had  been, 
as  everyone  believed,  Miss  Esther's  lover ; 
but  so  tacit  had  been  the  relation,  and  so 
reticent  and,  apparently,  heart-whole,  was  she 
when  he  left  Ashland,  and  her,  and  soon  after 
ward  married,  that  no  one  had  questioned,  or, 
openly,  pitied  her.  And  even  loyal  Martha 
could  hardly  be  sure  with  what  feeling  John 
Henderson's  daughter  would  be  regarded,  or 
whether  the  tenderness  Miss  Mortimer  had 
always  for  young,  aspiring  souls,  struggling 
in  adverse  conditions,  would  be  less  or  greater 
than  its  wont,  now  that  she  knew  her  young 
neighbor's  lineage. 

"We  shall  see  what  we  shall  see,"  she  said 
to  herself,  soberly,  and  gave  herself  with  even 


MISS    ESTHER.  23 

more  than  usual  ardor  to  the  tasks  that  fell  to 
her  share.  In  truth,  these  tasks  were  not  few 
nor  slight.  She  had  never  heard  Mr.  Hale's 
fine  phrase,  "the  magic  of  together,"  but  she 
knew, — as  she  said  to  herself, — that  ''when 
people  got  together,  and  especially  when  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  it,  in  the  right  sort  of 
way,  something  was  pretty  sure  to  be  done, 
and  commonly,  several  somethings."  And 
indeed  so  it  proved.  There  were  many  pro 
jects  on  foot,  some  of  them  really  charities, 
many  of  them  only  organized,  yet  unobtru 
sive,  helpfulness.  The  full  hands  on  the  one 
side  were  often' ng  themselves  to  the  empty 
ones  on  the  other.  And  not,  as  I  said,  in 
charity  alone,  save  in  its  spirit.  One  or  two 
things  Miss  Mortimer  had  hardly  dared  to 
hope  for,  certainly  not  to  suggest,  were  ac 
complished  ere  the  Candlemas  sun  had  set. 
The  directors  of  the  Ascot  mills,  at  their  mid 
winter  meeting,  voted  themselves  to  advance 
the  capita]  necessary  to  resume  operations 
therein,  and  to  hold  themselves  responsible 
for  their  continuance.  That  was  the  turning- 
point  in  the  battle  for  Ashland,  even  had  not 
several  lesser  corporations  followed  suit,  as 
they  did,  immediately. 

And  the  societies,  and  boards,   and  guilds, 
which]  had    organized    for  the  relief  of  "the 


24  UNDER    FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

unemployed,"  must  needs  turn  their  energies 
into  other  channels,  or  rather,  seek  new  and 
wiser  methods  of  helpfulness,  which  was,  on 
the  whole,  a  far  better  thing  for  them  all.  It 
is  doubtless  more  prosaic  to  teach  in  an  even 
ing  school,  to  help  sustain  a  working-girls' 
club,  or  a  home-culture  society,  or  a  class  in 
sewing  or  wood-carving,  than  actually  to  re 
lieve  the  suffering  and  destitute,  but  who  can 
doubt  that  the  former  is  the  more  fruitful 
work,  deeper  and  farther-reaching  in  its  ef 
fects  ? 

And  it  was  when  effort  had  reached  this 
stage  in  its  evolution  from  the  germ  of  "wil 
lingness"  nurtured  by  Miss  Mortimer,  that  an 
acquaintance  with  Ruth  Henderson  really  be 
gun.  Ruth  was  a  teacher  in  one  of  the  guild 
rl:i-sos,  and  an  officer  of  the  girls'  club,  which 
met  at  Miss  Mortimer's  home.  Martha  watched 
the  growing  intimacy  doubtfully. 

"If  she's  satisfied,  I  s'pose  I  ought  to  be," 
she  said  to  herself.  "And  truly,  I  do  believe 
that  one  girl's  done  her  more  good,  somehow, 
than  all  the  rest.  She  was  picking  up  pretty 
well,  though,  before.  I  wonder  what  that 
doctor  thinks,  now?  People  generally  know 
what  they  need,  themselves,  especially  when 
they've  an  eye  out  for  other  folks'  needs,  too. 


MISS    ESTHER.  25 

But  I  don't  see  what  that  trouble  between  her 
and  John  Henderson  was.  I  don't  suppose  I 
ever  shall  know." 

And  she  never  did,  though  she  lived  to  hear 
John  Henderson's  name  spoken  many  times, 
and  with  warm  and  affectionate  remembrance, 
by  both  the  younger  and  the  older  woman. 
Nor  did  she  ever  know  of  the  little  package  of 
time-stained  letters,  or  the  worn  diary,  bear 
ing  date  of  years  long  ended,  that  Ruth,  after 
she  had  come  to  be  half-daughter,  half-sister 
in  the  house,  gave  one  day  into  Miss  Esther's 
hands. 

"Tor,"  Ruth  said,  "I  think  they  belong  to 
you  now." 


HIS  LAST  BATTLE. 


The  dusky  air  was  sweet  with  the  breath  of 
syringas,  just  opening  their  snowy  blooms  in 
the  front  yards,  and  now  and  then  was  blown 
the  heavier  fragrance  of  lilacs,  or  the  finer 
scent  of  the  honeysuckle,  from  some  fence 
corner  where  such  rank  growths  still  flour 
ished.  But  the  shrubs  themselves,  and  even 
the  paling  behind  which  they  stood,  were  hid 
den  in  the  gathering  mist  which,  growing 
denser  as  the  twilight  deepened,  obscured  even 
the  dwellings  set  far.  apart,  as  in  dignified 
reserve,  on  either  side  the  long,  wide  street. 

The  village  lights  shone  dimly  through  the 
vapors,  and  even  in  the  nickering  glare  of  the 
street-lamps,  dotting  infrequently  the  long 
highway,  the  forms  and  faces  of  the  passers-by 
were  blurred  and  indistinct.  Pedestrians 
peered  inquisitively  into  their  neighbors' faces, 
as  they  met  on  the  pavement,  thankful  for 


HIS   LAST   BATTLE.  27 

any  obvious  peculiarity  of  form  or  gait  that 
made  recognition  easy. 

With  a  step  which  had  something  of  uncer 
tainty  in  it,  too  eager  to  be  listless,  too  feeble 
to  be  quite  expectant,  yet  which  had  a  certain 
precision  and  rhythmic  regularity,  a  man,  tall 
and  gaunt,  came  down  the  sidewalk  and  made 
his  way  through  the  little  knot  of  loungers 
that  the  evening  mail  had  attracted,  and  up 
the  steps  of  the  postoffice.  His  face  looked 
pale  and  careworn  when  the  light  fell  on  it  as 
he  entered  the  building,  and  the  little  group 
about  the  delivery  window  parted  to  let  him 
m-ike  his  inquiry  out  of  turn.  He  waited  with 
an  anxious  unexpectancy,  banished  in  a  mo 
ment  as  the  postmaster  reached  him  an  official 
looking  letter.  He  grasped  it  in  his  right 
hand — his  left  sleeve  was  pinned,  empty, 
across  his  breast — and  turned  hurriedly  away. 

Through  the  misty  street  he  retraced  his 
steps,  clutching  the  letter  closely.  By  and 
by  he  turned  into  a  vacant  entrance,  before 
which  a  light  burned  brightly,  stopped,  looked 
nervously  about  him,  and  tore  open  the  envel 
ope,  thrusting  it  under  his  empty  sleeve  while 
he  drew  forth  the  letter  it  contained.  He  read 
it  hastily,  then  slowly,  then  re-read  it  again 
as  if  unable  to  comprehend  its  import.  Pres- 


28  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

ently,  with  a  face  more  haggard  than  before, 
he  returned  the  sheet  to  its  envelope,  thrust 
it  into  his  pocket,  stepped  out  of  the  doorway, 
and  went  on.  Hurriedly  at  first,  until  he  was 
out  of  the  village,  then,  despite  the  fog  that 
was  almost  rain,  laggingly  and  aimlessly. 

A  crowd  of  confused,  bitter,  bewildered 
thoughts  was  in  his  brain,  wrhich  yet  seemed 
almost  vacant,  too.  As  well  it  might.  Had 
not  a  hope  gone  out  of  it?  A  hope  that  had 
sustained  mind  and  heart,  and  even  the  feeble 
body  itself,  for  many  a  day  ? 

Why  had  he  let  himself  hope,  he  ques 
tioned.  He  was  aware  that  there  was  a  flaw 

t 

in  his  papers,  that  his  proofs  of  honorable  ser 
vice  and  discharge  were  not  technically  com 
plete.  There  was  a  discrepancy  in  the  dates, 
probably  the  error  of  a  copying  clerk,  possibl}" 
a  mistake  in  the  entry  or  its  transmission. 

"A  technical  error,"  the  pension  agent  had 
called  it,  which  might  or  might  not  be  a  legal 
one,  and  most  likely  was  not ;  corroborating 
the  opinion  of  Squire  Burns,  the  village  law 
yer.  The  authorities,  only,  could  decide  it, 
and  it  was  best,  by  all  means,  to  submit  it  to 
them.  All  had  agreed  in  this.  And  he  had 
done  so. 

But  if  they  had  only  told  him  at  once,  or 
sooner.  He  did  not  build  on  the  hope  of  a 


HIS    LAST    BATTLE.  29 

pension  so  much  at  first.  Not  until  he  had 
grown  older  and  feebler,  and  could  do  and 
bear  less,  and  his  wife  had  been  ill ;  not  till 
they  began  to  fall  behind,  and  Phemie  had 
had  to  give  up  her  school  to  take  care  of  her 
mother,  and  one  of  the  horses  died  and  Sam 
had  begun  to  question  whether  they  had  not 
better  give  up  farming  altogether,  and  leave 
him  free  to  earn  in  some  other  way.  He  had 
been  away  through  the  late  winter  and  early 
spring,  and  had  come  home  only  a  few  weeks 
before,  for  another  season's  effort.  And  this 
might  have  tided  them  over  the  shallows. 

It  meant  so  much  to  them.  Independence, 
home,  comfort,  hope  for  the  future,  and  maybe, 
with  and  by  means  of  these,  for  the  older  ones, 
health,  and  life  itself.  Youth  could  hold  its 
own,  at  least,  though  Phemie  was  hardly  fit  to 
face  the  world ;  but  age  has  a  sore  fight,  sin 
gle-handed.  And  he  smiled  grimly  at  the  lit 
eral  ness  of  his  metaphor. 

So  he  wandered  on,  hurt  and  hopeless,  and 
bewildered,  thinking  his  bitter,  dreary  thoughts. 
He  did  not  think  of  the  time,  even  when  the 
nine  o'clock  bell  rang,  though  he  knew,  if  he 
had  recollected,  that  they  would  be  looking 
for  him  at  home  long  before  that  hour.  It  did 
occur  to  him  by  and  by,  but  he  neither  turned 


30  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

nor  hastened*  How  could  he  go  home  and 
tell  them?  They  would  have  to  know  when  ho 
went — if  he  went.  But  he  could  not  go  homo 
to  tell  Martha  and  Phemie  and  Sam  that. 

The  road  turned  abruptly  just  there,  met 
by  a  stream,  not  wide,  but  deep  and  turbu 
lent.  Outside  of  New  England  it  would  per 
haps  he  called  a  river,  but  here  it  was  only 
Stony  Brook.  A  bridge  spanned  it  here,  in 
continuance  of  the  highway — a  toll-bridge, 
and  Jonas  Rand  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket 
instinctively,  but  his  fingers  met  that  letter, 
and  he  withdrew  them  empty.  He  must  not 
spend  pennies  needlessly,  now. 

He  looked  back  toward  the  village  ;  but  its 
lights  had  for  him  no  beckoning  radiance.  East 
ward  he  turned  his  eyes,  where  among  the 
scattered  home-lights,  one  by  one  disappear 
ing,  was  one  familiar  and  dear,  that  had  been 
his  lode-star  through  toilsome  years.  But  he 
shook  his  head  mechanically.  Not  there — yet. 
Was  there  no  place  for  him  then?  For  earth 
seemed  suddenly  cold  and  uninviting.  Hark  ! 
Below  him  Stony  Brook,  hurrying  on  in  its 
reckless  haste,  swollen  by  the  spring  rains, 
shouted,  "Come,  come,  come  !"  Why  should 
he  not  obev? 

v 

How  long  he  stood  there  he  never  knew. 
Not  long,  doubtless,  measuring  the  time  by 


HIS    LAST    BATTLE.  31 

hours.  But  he  had  been  in  battles  whose 
smoke  had  not  lifted  from  sun  to  sun,  and  from 
sunset  to  dawn,  and  to  dark  again,  that  were 
not  so  long,  so  dark,  so  fateful.  But  it  was 
over  at  last,  and  he  turned,  no  longer  bewil 
dered  nor  uncertain,  but  saying  in  his  heart : 

"No  !  As  I  am  a  man,  and  God  made  me 
one,  aye,  and  by  His  own  providence  this  man, 
baffled  and  helpless  as  I  am — a  man  I  will  be  ! 
And  in  this  world  of  His  I  will  stay  till  He 
calls  me  out  of  it.  The  rest  He  will  take  care 
of." 

Between  Stony  Brook  and  the  Rand  farm 
lay  a  lonely  stretch  of  road,  but  it  was  neither 
lon»'  nor  lonesome  to  Jonas  Rand  that  night. 

O  O 

A-  solemn  peace,  that  left  no  room  for  forebod 
ings,  a  thankfulness  so  warm  and  deep  that  it 
was  almost  gladness,  filled  his  heart.  The  mist, 
unobserved  by  him,  had  thinned  and  lifted. 
As  he  turned  homeward,  a  star  shone  out  of 
the  parting  clouds,  joined,  as  he  went  on,  by 
another  and  another,  till  the  blue  sky  was 
studded  with  them.  The  west  wind  stirred 
softly  the  roses  by  his  porch,  and  sent  a  shower 
of  fragrant  drops  into  his  face  as  he  went  up 
the  steps. 

Though  it  was  late,  and,  as  he  had  expected, 
the  family  had  waited  for  him,  it  somehow  did 


32  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

not  seera  to  be  wholly  on  his  account.  Nor 
were  they  so  anxious  as  he  had  anticipated,  to 
hear  the  news  he  might  have  brought.  He  had 
seen  them  often  far  more  disturbed  and  expec 
tant.  Something  else  had  excited  them — it 
could  not  be  his  mood  reflected  in  their  faces 
— and  not  unpleasantly. 

"You  are  late,  father,  and  you  must  be  well 
tired  out.  Take  his  coat,  Phemie,  then  run 
out  and  see  if  the  tea  is  like  to  be  hot.  He 
must  have  something  warm  right  away,"  said 
Mrs.  Rand,  leaving  her  own  rocking-chair  to 
bring  his  worn  dressing-gown  and  slippers. 

"And  we've  had  callers,''  said  Sam.  "They 
wanted  to  see  you,  but  couldn't  wait  any  longer. 
At  least  one  of  'em  did." 

"Ah  !"  said  the  father,  thinking  how  warm 
and  bright  the  fire  and  lamplight  were,  how 
pretty  Phemie  was  growing,  how  strong  Sam 
looked,  and  how  manly — that  home  was  sweet 
and  life  good,  and  even  mother  looked  better 
than  a  day  or  two  ago.  What  if — well,  what 
if  any  great  sorrow  had  come  to  any  of  them 
that  night!  God  forbid!  And  had  He  not? 
How  good  He  was  ! 

"Ah?  I  met  some  one  at  the  foot  of  the 
lane,  but  it  was  so  dark  there  in  the  orchard 
I  couldn't  tell  who  it  was,"  he  went  on. 


HIS   LAST    BATTLE.  33 

Phemie  had  turned  away,  and  no  one  spoke 
for  a  moment,  then  Sam  said  : 

"Yes,  we've  had  two  visitors.  You  haven't 
seen  John  Freeman  lately,  have  you?  Well, 
he's  been  over  to-night.  And — I  never 
thought  much  about  it  before — it  always 
seemed  such  a  worthless  piece  of  land  to  us, 
for  all  the  wood-lot — but  he  wants  to  buy  that 
heater-piece,  between  our  south  meadow  and 
his  pasture  land.  You  know  it's  really  a  size 
able  piece  of  land,  and  got  some  pretty  good 
timber  on  it.  And  it  just  evens  up  his  land, 
and  ours,  finally,  t'other  way.  So  he's  will 
ing  to  pay  a  good  fair  price  for  it,  out  and 
out.  I  don't  know  exactly  how  much,  but 
about  what  it's  worth,  and  enough  to  give  us 
a  good  lift.  Enough  to  set  us  square  with 
the  world,  and  give  us  something  to  help  our 
selves  with,  besides.  That  is,  if  you're  will 
ing  to  let  it  go.  It's  as  you  say,  of  course." 

For  the  father  had  raised  himself  for  a  mo 
ment,  as  if  in  dismay,  had  lifted  his  hand  as 
if  to  stay  him,  and  even  Sam  could  but  be 
startled  by  the  pallor  of  his  face.  But  it 
passed  in  a  moment,  and  he  answered,  throw 
ing  all  his  strength  into  the  words  : — 

"Willing?  Well,  I  should  think  so.  I've 
often  looked  at  that  heater-piece,  and  thought 

3 


34  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

what  a  queer  survey  it  was  that  divided  the 
land  so.  But  I  never  supposed  John  cared 
enough  about  it  to  buy  it.  It'll  be  a  great  help 
to  us,  and  not  hurt  the  farm  any  to  speak  of, 
either.  I'd  a'  been  willing  to  let  a  good  bit  of 
land  go,  to  square  us  round  this  spring.  I 
wish  I'd  seen  John.  Probably  I  met  him 
there  in  the  orchard  lane." 

"No,"  answered  Sam,  relieved,  but  wishing 
his  father  were  less  thin  and  white,  "he  went 
two  hours  ago.  They  go  to  bed  with  the 
chickens,  over  to  Freemans'.  I  guess  that 
was  Loring  Burns.  He's  been  here,  too." 

"Loring  ?     Wanted  to  see  me ,  didn't  he  ?" 

He  spoke  eagerly  and  less  gladly.  Burns 
&  Son  were  the  village  lawyers,  whom  he  had 
consulted.  Probably  they  had  heard,  too. 
Their  homestead  adjoined  the  Rand  place,  and 
both  the  elder  and  the  younger  man  some 
times  dropped  in  of  an  evening  in  a  neigh 
borly  way,  or  to  talk  over  his  claim. 

But  Sam — what  was  the  boy  smiling  at  ? — 
answered  slowly  : 

"Well,  no.  He  didn't  speak  of  having  any 
errand,  at  least,  not  to  me,  when  I  went  to 
the  door.  Fact,  his  business  seemed  .to  be 
with  Phemie." 

A  perception  of  the  young  lawyer's  "errand" 
came  at  last  to  the  father's  mind.  To  this 


HIS    LAST    BATTLE.  35 

new  state  of  affairs  he  must  adjust  himself 
slowly,  and  he  expressed  his  surprise  only  in 
a  slow,  involuntary  "Oh !"  while  Sam  smiled 
again,  and  Phemie  retreated  to  look  after  "that 

o  ' 

tea/' 

But  even  its  medicinal  quality  could  not 
avert  the  consequence  of  the  evening's  expo 
sure  and  the  shock  of  his  disappointment, 
resolutely  put  by  though  as  it  had  been  at 
last,  and  now  well  might  be,  in  the  brighten 
ing  family  fortunes.  Morning  found  him 
weak,  stiff  and  feverish,  and  with  a  painful 
cough,  which  assumed  so  suddenly  a  serious, 
character  that  physician  and  family  alike, 
ignorant  of  his  vigil,  found  it  hard  to  account 
for  it.  It  was  when  a  week  had  passed,  and 
he  had  begun  to  mend,  that  Phemie  found  in 
his  pocket  the  letter,  whose  existence  had  been 
unknown  by  them  hitherto,  and  read  it  forth 
with,  first  to  herself,  and  then  to  her  mother 
and  brother. 

"Just  as  I  expected,"  said  Sam. 

"I  never  felt  as  though  'twould  come,"  said 
Mrs.  Rand. 

"And  I'm  sure  I  didn't,"  said  Phemie.  "I 
thought  he ,  looked  all  given  out  that  night. 
We  won't  say  anything  about  it  till  he  does. 
And  I  believe  we'd  better  not  say  anything 


36  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

about  its  being  Memorial  Day,  unless  he  does. 
It  may  make  him  feel  badly  after  this.  Dear 
me,  there  comes  Gracie  Barrows,  to  rehearse 
her  piece  to  me,  now.  I'm  afraid  he'll  hear 
us." 

She  took  the  girl  into  the  parlor,  and 
closed  the  door ;  but  Gracie  asked  in  a  mo 
ment  or  two  for  a  drink  of  water,  and  the 
door  was  left  unlatched  when  they  returned  to 
their  task,  so  that  the  sweet,  girlish  voice, 
clear  and  distinct,  floated  into  the  sick  man's 
room.  He  turned  his  head  to  listen.  "What's 
•that?" 

"One  of  Phemie's  scholars  rehearsing  a 
piece  to  her  for  the  exercises  this  afternoon." 

"Decoration  Day,  aint  it?  Have  the  chil 
dren  carried  over  any  flowers?" 

"What  we  had,"  replied  Mrs.  Rand,  uneas- 

iiy- 

"Those   wild  plum   blossoms  would  go    in 

X"well  with  the  rest,  and  I  know  where  there's  a 

lot  of  honeysuckles,  over  in  the  meadow,    by 

the  east  woods,  there.     You'd  better  tell  Sam 

to  go  get  some  and  carry." 

And  left  alone,  he  listened  again  to  the  lines 
the  girl  was  repeating,  words  that  'fell  on  his 
ears  like  balm,  and  lingering  in  his  hearing, 
lulled  him  to  sleep  : 


HIS   LAST   BATTLE.  37 

"He  serves  his  country  best 
Who  lives  pure  life,  and  doeth  righteous  deed, 
-    And  walks  straight  paths,  however  others  stray, 
And  leaves  his  sons,  as  uttermost  bequest, 
A  stainless  record  which  all  men  may  read. 
This  is  the  better  way." 

Stony  Brook  had  lost  its  spring-tide  turbu 
lence,  and  went  singing  softly  over  the  peb 
bles,  where  from  his  windows  Jason  Rand  saw 
it,  hastening  seaward,  again.  Sam  wondered 
why,  in  the  hay  field,  his  father  should  stop 
and  look  and  listen,  when  their  work  took 
them  near  its  banks. 

Phemie,  when  she  had  gone,  at  harvest 
time,  to  her  new  home,  wondered  that,  when 
her  father  came  in  to  see  her  there,  and  was 
shown  through  her  pretty  rooms,  he  should 
look  from  each  window  at  the  same  familiar 
hills  and  meadows  with  the  same  slender  stream 
threading  its  way  between  them. 

And  when,  by  and  by,  childish  hands  led 
him  along  the  well-worn  paths  between  the 
homes,  the  little  guide  would  go  slowly, 
puzzled  that  grandpa  should  always  stop,  mid 
way,  to  look  at  the  brook  at  the  foot  of  the 
old  orchards  and  to  listen  to  its  song. 

They  laid  him  to  rest,  one  day,  in  God's 
Acre,  overlooking  its  shores.  A  fluttering  flag 
shows  that  it  is  a  soldier's  grave,  and  Stony 
Brook — conscious  of  its  secret — sings  for  him 
a  tender  requiem. 


A  THANKSGIVING  DISTRIBUTION. 


The  November  sun,  half  an  hour  high,  shone 
through  breaking  clouds  on  the  long,  wind 
swept'  height  long  known  as  Meeting-house 
Hill.  It  was  reflected  from  the  eastern  win 
dows  of  the  bare,  ancient,  white-painted  struc 
ture,  that  gave  the  hill  its  name,  and  it  gleamed 
very  brightly  into  the  cheerful  sitting-room  at 
the  old  Fields  farm,  where  Miss  Lois  and  Miss 
Lucretia  sat,  after  their  cosy  breakfast,  read 
ing  their  morning  chapter.  "The  Fields  girls," 
they  were  still  called,  though  Miss  Lois,  the 
younger  of  the  two,  was  nearing  sixty.  The 
old  farmhouse,  and  the  many-acred,  if  some 
what  sterile  farm,  had,  in  Nathan  Fields'  time, 
sheltered  and  supported  a  family  of  twelve, — 
how,  only  those  who  know  how  far  toilsome 
thrift,  and  proud,  independent  effort,  and  sim 
ple,  contented  living  can  make  scanty  resources 
go,  can  best  tell  you.  Seven  of  the  ten  chil- 


A    THANKSGIVING    DISTRIBUTION.  39 

dren,  with  father  and  mother,  slept  now  in  the 
little  graveyard  that  lay  in  the  valley  between 
the  meeting-house  and  the  broad,  blue  river. 
Only  Lois  and  Lucretia,  with  a  sister  who 
years  before  had  married  David  Romney,  a 
farmer-neighbor,  were  left.  They  were,  small, 
brown-haired,  pleasant-faced  women,  so  much 
alike  that  strangers  ventured  on  no  more  dis 
tinctive  title,  in  addressing  them,  than  the  im 
personal  Miss  Fields.  But  others,  better  ac 
quainted,  knew  that  Miss  Lois  was  the  smaller, 
livelier,  sharper-tongued  of  the  trim,  alert, 
kindly  old-fashioned  little  ladies,  who  were  so 
capable,  who  "managed"  the  big  farm  so  suc 
cessfully,  and  always  seemed  so  independent 
and  comfortable,  driving  to  church  in  town, 
four  miles  away,  every  pleasant  Sunday,  and 
to  the  same  busy  little  city  two  or  three  times 
in  the  week,  with  butter,  eggs,  or  fruit,  and  to 
buy  groceries  ;  and  occasionally  making  ready 
for  an  afternoon,  making  calls,  or  going  to 
spend  the  day  with  friends  in  town  or  on  a  not 
too  distant  farm.  Busy,  kindly,  cheery  peo 
ple  they  were, — with  faces  so  true,  so  quiet 
and  gentle,  so  serene  and  trustful,  that  you 
would  hardly  guess  how  sorely  wrung  with 
grief,  how  deeply  plowed  with  sorrow,  had 
been  the  hearts  and  the  years  behind  them, — 


40  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

though  the  blue  eyes  were  deep-set,  dimmed, 
and  faded  with  tears  shed  long  ago. 

One  of  their  "ways"  was  this  morning  read 
ing, — always  a  chapter, — nearly  always  read 
in  course.  To-day  it  was  the  last  chapter  of 
First  Timothy,  and  Miss  Lucretia,  whose  turn 
it  was  to  read,  went  back,  after  she  had  finished, 
to  read  again  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
verses  :  "Charge  them  .  .  .  that  they  do  good, 
that  they  be  rich  in  good  works,  ready  to  dis 
tribute,  willing  to  communicate." 

"Ready  to  distribute,"  she  repeated.  "I  al 
ways  liked  the  sound  of  that  verse,  though  I 
never  knew  as  I  rightly  understood  what  it 
means." 

"Why,  what  it  says,  of  course  !" 

"But  how  is  anybody  going  to  do  it ;  and  is 
it, — ain't  it  meant  for  us  ?" 

"We  aren't  rich,  by  any  means,"  rejoined 
Miss  Lois,  briskly ;  "and  'twas  them  that  are 
rich  he  was  talking  about.  But  I  suppose  he 
meant  every  one,  accordingly.  And  we  do  it, 
some." 

"Yes,  but  we  don't  distribute  but  little,  for 
folks  that  has  so  much  all  to  themselves." 

"We  don't  have  a  great  sight,  only  the 
butter  and  eggs,  and  the  hay  and  apples  to 
sell,  the  farm  is  so  run  out, — unless  David 


A    THANKSGIVING   DISTRIBUTION.  41 

cuts  some  of  the  wood  from  the  back  lot,  or 
we  take  summer  boarders, — from  which  may 
we  be  delivered  hereafter,  if  they're  all  like 
Liab  Thorn's  folks, — veritable  thorns,  and 
aggravating  ones,  they  was.  Though  we  do 
earn  some  spending-money  tailoring." 

"But  we've  done  pretty  well  this  year,  what 
with  the  orchard  doing  so  well,  bearing  an 
off-year,  when  apples  are  high ;  and  the  poul 
try  and  the  butter  ;  and  Mis'  Thorn  paid  pretty 
well,  after  all.  And  it's  Thanksgiving  time, 
and  we've  got  fixed  up  so  comfortable  for 
winter,  it  don't  seem  right  to  just  sit  down 
and  enjoy  it  all  ourselves,  and  not  give 
around  any  of  it,  when  there's  so  many  poor 
and  discouraged  and  sorrowful  and  lonesome 
folks." 

"Who  are  they,  and  what  shall  we  give 
'em?"  inquired  Miss  Lois,  attacking  with  her 
skimmer  the  yellow  cream  on  the  pans, — they 
were  in  the  kitchen  now, — while  her  sister 
cleared  away  the  breakfast-table.  "I'm  will 
ing.  Only  we'd  better  be  about  it ;  it's  Tues 
day  now." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Lucretia,  "there's  Mrs. 
Leigh  and  Alice*.  They  probably  can't  buy 
much  for  Thanksgiving,  and  wouldn't  have 
time  to  cook  it  if  they  could.  I'll  carry  them 


42  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

a  couple  of  my  pies,  a  mince  and  a  pumpkin, 
I  think." 

"And  we'll  take  'em  a  chicken  and  some 
greenings.  Glad  you  thought  of  it.  And 
wouldn't  it  be  a  good  plan  to  send  a  chicken 
to  Hannah  Ham?  We  can  spare  two,  I 
guess." 

"Yes,  and  a  pie  ;  and  Uncle  Day  must  have 
a  pie  and  a  loaf  of  bread  and  some  doughnuts. 
And,  Lois,  we  shan't  go  anywhere  to  dinner, 
— they'll  ask  us  over  to  David's,  David  and 
Ruth,  but  I  know  David's  brothers  are  com 
ing,  and  we  don't  want  to  go.  And  we  could 
invite  one  or  two  in  just  as  well  as  not, 
couldn't  we  ?" 

"Why,  Lucretia  Ann  Fields,  who  do  you 
want  to  ask?  The  governor,  or  old  Aunt 
Sally  Ha wkes?" 

"Why,"  answered  Miss  Lucretia,  meekly 
and  hesitatingly,  "I  only  thought  there  was 
room  enough,  and  everything  so  nice  and 
cheerful,  with  the  rooms  new-papered  and 
whitewashed  this  fall,  and  there's  Mary 
Elliott,  Mrs.  Emery,  1  mean,  with  her  girl 
and  boy  alone  in  that  big  house,  feelin'  so 
proud  and  sad  and  lonesome  .since  their  father 
disgraced  all  and  then  died  and  left  'em" — 

"They  wouldn't  come  here  !  I  asked  you 
why  you  don't  ask  in  the  governor !" 


A    THANKSGIVING    DISTRIBUTION.  43 

"They  would  come,  I  b'lieve  ;   and  'twould 
do  Mary  good,  and  the  children,  too,  to  get' 
out  here  and  look  over  to  where  she  used  to 
live  when  she   was  young, — where   she  grew 
up." 

"We  can't  fix  things  nice  enough  for  them." 

"Yes,  we  can  ;  they'll  like  the  change." 

"Well,"  replied  Miss  Lois  emphatically,  "if 
that's  the  plan,  I'll  hurry  and  get  my  hands 
out  of  the  churning,  and  help  you  with  the 
pies  and  doughnuts.  I'll  'tend  to  the  punkin. 
When  did  you  think  of  inviting  them?" 

"We've  got  to  carry  in  the  butter  to-mor 
row  ;  that'll  be  time  enough.  When  I  carried 
the  apples  she  ordered  last  week,  I  heard  her 
say  they  was  to  be  at  home  ;  she  looked  all 
overcome  when  the  man  who  brings  her  things 
was  asking  if  she  wanted  a  turkey  for  Thanks 
giving.  She  didn't  seem  to  want  to  do  any 
thing  the  way  she  used  to,  but  I  surmised  she 
thought  she'd  best  make  things  as  cheerful  as 
she  could  for  Anna  and  Allan.  And  we  can 
take  the  things  to  Mrs.  Leigh  as  we  go  along." 

"How'll  the  Erne rys  get  out  here?  They 
haven't  got  any  horse,  have  they?  And  there's 
three  of  'em,  Anna  and  Allan,  besides  their 
mother." 

"I  thought,"  Miss  Lucretia  made  answer, 
somewhat  loth  now  to  tell  the  plans  she  had 


UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

been  revolving,  and  lead  the  campaign  she 
•had  so  courageously  begun,  —  "that  Allan 
could  ride  out  on  the  milk  wagon  with  Davy, 
Thursday  morning  early,  and  take  our  team 
and  go  in  and  bring  his  mother  and  Anna 
out." 

"And  one  of  us  can  carry  them  home.  Allan 
can  get  a  ride,  maybe,  some  way.  I  wonder, 
Lucretia,  if  one  of  our  punkins,  and  maybe, 
a  few  vegetables  wouldn't  come  handy  at  the 
Lou'den's  for  Thanksgiving?  We  use  sech  a 
few,  ourselves,  and  thinkin'  of  them  pies  made 
me  think  of  it.  There,  the  butter's  done,  and 
now  I'll  carry  it  down  cellar,  and  come  right 
off  and  help  fill  the  pies." 

So  Lucretia  mixed  and  rolled  and  flaked 
and  baked,  and  Miss  Lois  sifted  and  stirred 
and  sweetened  and  spiced,  and  at  the  early 
sunset  the  speckless  pantry  shelves  held  rows 
of  tempting,  toothsome  Thanksgiving  pies, 
—  pumpkin  and  squash,  mince  and  apple, 
cranberry  and  custard.  A  half  dozen  loaves 
of  bread,  browned  to  perfection,  were  tilted 
up  to  cool  on  the  broad  shelf  by  the  window  ; 
beside  them  stood  a  pan  of  doughnuts,  spicy 
and  substantial ;  and  "Miss  Lucretia  was  hand 
ling  with  care  the  cake,  sponge  and  marble 
and  fruit  cake,  guiltless  of  frosting  or  icing  or 


A    THANKSGIVING    DISTRIBUTION.  45 

meringue,  yet  wholesome  and  flavorous,  as 
well  as  fragrant. 

"Now,  Lucretia,  you're  just  clean  tired  out !" 
exclaimed  Lois,  as  she  took  down  her  milk 
pails.  •"You  just  go  lie  down  while  I  do  the 
chores.  I'll  put  the  teakettle  on,  and  when  I 
come  in  I'll  make  the  tea,  and  put  on  the  sup 
per.  You're  all  beat  out." 

But  bright  and  early  next  morning,  their 
capacious  wagon  filled,  back  and  front,  with 
bags  and  baskets  and  two  or  three  enormous 
yellow  pumpkins, — the  sisters  started  town- 
ward.  Their  load  grew  rapidly  less  as  they 
entered  and  rode  along  the  streets  of  the  city, 
though  the  unusual  celerity  with  which  their 
neighborly  errands  were  done, — a  haste  re 
markable  in  the  usually  sociable  Lois,  cut 
short  or  averted  altogether  the  thanks  of  the 
half-dozen  women,  each  of  whom  was  in  her 
own  way  surprised,  touched,  gratified,  grate 
ful  for  the  unlocked  for  kindness,  and  the 
unexpected  accession  to  her  store.  Mrs. 
Leigh  regretfully  rose  from  her  sewing, — 
moments  were  precious  with  her,  and  her 
day's  work  hard  to  be  accomplished, — as  they 
stopped  at  her  door.  But  her  thankfulness 
and  wonderment  were  evident,  though  only 
half-uttered.  And,  if  the  donors  could  have 


46  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

heard  her  thoughts  and  known  that  their  cur 
rent  was  turned  from  despondent  anxiety  to  a 
happier  mood  by  their  benefaction,  they 
would  have  felt  themselves  richly  repaid. 

"We  can  keep  Thanksgiving,  after  all.  I 
couldn't  spare  the  money  to  buy  anything,  nor 
take  any  time  to-day  even  to  cook.  But  now 
I  can  finish  this  job  to-day,  and  that  will  make 
out  money  enough  to  pay  for  a  ton  of  coal. 
Mollie  has  the  day  to-morrow  out  of  the  store, 
and  we  can  get  that  chicken  into  the  oven, 
and  the  vegetables  ready,  and  we  can  go  to 
church.  And  I  will  take  two  or  three  of 
those  big  apples  Miss  Fields  brought,  for  a 
bit  of  sauce,  and  cut  a  couple  of  pieces  out  of 
the  pumpkin  pie,  for  our  supper.  That'll 
leave  more  than  enough  for  to-morrow,  with 
the  mince.  And  the  best  of  it  is,  it  makes  a 
body  feel  that  God  doesjcare.  We  might  be 
so  much  worse  off!  Yes,  we've  a  good  deal 
to  be  thankful  for,  every  way.  We've  got 
friends,  and  we've  got  (Jod,  and  they  make 
one  feel  surer  of  him." 

Jt  was  with  more  trepidation  that  Lucretia 
entered  Mrs.  Emery's  sitting-room.  She  had 
had  butter  and  eggs  to  bring,  which,  being 
old  acquaintances,  the  sisters  had  furnished 
before  and  since  their  friend's  sorrows, — and 


A    THANKSGIVING   DISTRIBUTION.  47 

this  gave  her  an  errand.  But  her  embassy 
was  soon  accomplished. 

"AYell,"  said  Lois,  "will  they  come?  I  'spose 
they  will, — you  look  like  it.  And  what's  that 
you've  got  in  your  hand,  Lucretia?" 

"Yes ,  indeed  ;  Mary  seemed  real  pleased  to 
think  we  thought  of  it,  and  I  think  she  was 
glad  to  get  out  on  the  Hill  again,  in  sight  of 
the  old  place.  She  said  they  wasn't  going  any 
where  else,  and  wasn't  going  to  do  much  at 
home,  and  she  went  up  and  asked  Anna,  and 
Anna  came  down,  too.  And  they  both  said 
it  would  be  a  real  delight  to  'em,  and  they  was 
very  grateful  for  our  remembrance  of  'em. 
And  this  book  I  was  a-looking  at  while  Mary 
was  out  of  the  room, — Lucy  Larcom's  poems  ; 
you  know  I've  cut  her  pieces  out  of  the  Tran 
script  a  good  many  times.  And  Anna  Emery, 
she  would  have  me  take  it  home  to  read ;  and 
she's  got  other  books  she  said  we  might  have ; 
Mrs.  Whitney's,  and  somebody  she  called  Miss 
Jewett,  and  the  woman  that  wrote  The  Gates 
Ajar.'  And  books  of  poetry,  and  sermons, 
too.  She  showed  me  some  of  'em,  and  she 
said  she  should  bring,  out  some  Thursday. 
'Twill  be  a  real  God-send  this  winter.  And 
they  both  seemed  as  pleased  and  friendly  as 
could  be.  They  said  Allan  would  be  tickled 


48  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

to  come.  And  I  shouldn't  wonder,  Lois,  if  we 
should  get  considerable  well  acquainted  and 
sociable  with  'em,  if  things  go  well.  Some 
how  there's  quite  a  number  of  folks  seem  a 
sight  nearer  than  they  did  last  week." 

"Maybe  so,  maybe  so.  Hurry  up.  Jack  ! 
Tom  Harriman'll  be  round  after  them  chickens 
before  we  get  home,  I'm  afeard.  Don't  know 
what  he'll  say  at  our  keeping  out  so  many, 
after  they  was  all  dressed  for  the  store,  too. 
Catch  him  a-givin'  away  one  !  for  all  he's  worth 
his  clear  ten  thousand,  and  the  farm." 

Tom  Harriman,  drover  and  butcher,  as  well 
as  farmer, — tight-fisted,  as  he  must  needs  have 
been,  to  lay  up  a  competency  on  those  bleak 
Maine  hills,  drove  up  to  their  door  just  as  Lois 
and  Lucretia,  the  one  having  unharnessed, 
while  the  other  unlocked  the  house  and 'stirred 
up  the  fire, — were  laying  away  their  wraps 
and  the  now  empty  baskets.  A  little  surprised 
at  the  lessened  store  of  poultry  awaiting  him, 
he  soon  surmised,  though  he  said  no  word,  the 
cause  of  its  depletion,  and,  unknown  to  the 
sisters,  was  moved  to  two  or  three  generous 
donations  to  less  prosperous  neighbors,  in 
honor  of  the  season,  and  to  a  liberality  in 
"bartering,"  weighing,  and  making  change,  that 
was  quite  unusual  to  him.  And  as  he  went 


A    THANKSGIVING    DISTRIBUTION.  49 

on  his  way  over  the  rocky  roads,  past  the  fields 
where  the  after-math  was  brown,  and  the  bloom 
of  the  golden-rod,  lately  so  bonny,  clung,  frost- 
burnt  and  faded,  to  its  withering  stalk, — while 
his  maiden  neighbors  were  taking  down  their 
quaint,  precious  china,  straining  their  cran 
berry  jelly,  dusting  and  garnishing  their  low, 
pleasant,  old-fashioned  rooms, — he  was  some 
how  reminded  how  soon  the  busiest,  most  pros 
perous,  longest  life  is  done  ;  how  little  of  his 
hardly-gotten  gains  could  be  carried  into  that 
low  house  where  the  western  sun  gleamed 
bright  on  the  old,  white,  slanting  stones, — how 
little,  alas  !  he  had  so  spent  that  he  could  well 
carry  the  investment  on  into  the  lofty  mansions 
be}rond, — the  Father's  house  ;  how  many  oppor 
tunities  there  were,  even  now,  of  doing  and 
giving  ;  and  what  a  warm  feeling  was  somehow 
at  one's  heart  when  one  had  reached  out  a  gen 
erous,  helping  hand. 

Once  more  the  November  sunshine — this 
time  from  a  tender,  cloudless  sky,  such  as  the 
vanishing  Autumn  sometimes  gives  us  as  she 
passes — looked  in  on  the  busy,  expectant 
sisters  in  the  old  farmhouse,  making  their 
final  preparations  for  the  Thanksgiving  feast, 
to  grace  which  a  huge,  plump  turkey  was. 
already  steaming  in  the  oven. 


50  UNDER   FRIEXDLY    EAVES. 

Very  swiftly  this  Thanksgiving  sun  seemed 
to  climb  the  stainless  blue,  smiling,  at  ten 
o'clock,  on  the  arriving  guests ;  beaming  on 
the  quiet,  yet  heartily  enjoyed  "visiting"  that 
filled  the  remaining  forenoon  ;  and  resting, 
with  a  benignity  that  was  a  benediction,  on 
the  little  group  around  the  great,  square  table, 
decked  with  glass  and  china,  fruit  and  flowers, 
and  burdened  with  its  Thanksgiving  cheer; 
on  the  guests,  not  beguiled  into  forgetfulness 
of  their  sorrows,  but  reminded  of  the  Father, 
who  "ordereth  all  things  after  the  counsel  of 
his  will ;"  whose  "tender  mercies  are  over  all 
his  works ;"  whose  love,  both  his  giving  and 
withholding  shall  prove  and  unfold ;  on  whose 
errands,  in  paths  of  service,  and  in  ministries 
to  other  lives,  the  weakest  and  poorest  may 
be  going ;  and  on  the  silvering  hair  of  our 
friends,  the  sisters,  Lois  and  Lucretia, — 
thankful  in  their  joys,  trustful  in  their  silent 
griefs,  and  loneliness,  and  glad,  with  a  new 
gladness,  in  "distributing"  the  Lord's  bounty. 


AN  OLD  SONG. 


The  mellow  October  sunshine  lay  warm  on 
stony  hill  and  dusty  intervale,  as,  between  the 
bordering  maples,  scarlet  and  golden  in  their 
early  autumn  glory,  Mrs.  Ada  Shirley  rode  in 
her  easy  carriage,  her  thoughts  busy  with  cer 
tain  secret,  well-premeditated '  unmalevolent 
designs.  "This  sunlight  is  lovely,  but  moon 
light  is  irresistible,"  she  soliloquized.  "No 
man  in  his  right  mind,  and  in  love,  can  stand 
that.  And  the  moon  fulls  to-morrow,  and 
next  day's  Thursday — my  day."  But  her 
musings  were  interrupted  here,  for  turning  the 
lane  to  the  Ray  farm,  she  overtook  the  object 
of  her  quest,  and  indirectly  of  her  meditations, 
sauntering  leisurely  up  the  grassy  road,  her 
hands  full  of  gay  autumn  leaves,  and  fading 
golden-rod,  and  over-ripe  and  plumy  grasses. 

"Why,  it's  you,  is  it  Ada,  and  you're  com 
ing  to  see  me  ?  How  delightful !" 


52  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

"Yes,  it's  I," 'responded  Mrs.  Ada.  "Jump 
in,  Helen.  It's  you  I  wanted  to  see,  and  I 
can't  stay  long.  You  see,"  she  resumed,  a 
moment  later,  "I'm  going  to  have  a  tea-party 
to  improve  this  lovel}  weather.  You  must  be 
there,  of  course,  and  I  want  you  to  come  out 
in  the  morning  and  stay  over  night.  You 
will,  won't  you?  Thursday  night  it's  going 
to  be — -just  a  little  company — the  minister  and 
his  wife,  and  Ned  and  Grace  Waylin,  and 
Nettie  Robson  and  Joe,  and  two  or  three 
others." 

"Why,  yes,  1  suppose  I  can  come.  That  is, 
if  mother  has  no  objections.  I  don't  know  of 
any  reason  why  I  can't  be  spared." 

"Spared !  Of  course  you  can  be  spared ! 
You're  not  half  so  necessary  as  you  think 
yourself,"  was  her  companion's  rejoinder,  as 
she  tied  her  gray  horse  to  the  farmer's  gate 
post. 

Whether  her  assertions  were  true  or  not,  it 
transpired  that  Miss  Helen  could  very  well  be 
spared  on  this  occasion,  and  the  mother, 
whose  steadfast,  brown  eyes  might  have 
passed  for  Helen's  own,  so  alike  they  were, 
promised  that  she  should  be  at  the  village 
bright  and  early  Thursday  morning. 

"Did  you  know  John  Loring  was  at  home  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Shirley,  as,  her  errand  done,  they 


AX    OLD    SONG.  53 

lingered  on  the  little  piazza  overhung  with 
scarlet  creepers,  to  chat  of  neighborhood  news. 
"But  of  course  you  did,  you'd  have  seen  him 
at  church." 

The  gray  horse  was  impatient,  and  his  mis 
tress  was  even  then  in  the  carriage,  and  a 
moment  afterward  off.  An  hour  later  she  was 
saying  to  her  husband,  "She's  coming,  and 
she  knew  John  was  here,  though  I  didn't  give 
her  a  chance  to  ask  if  he  was  coming,  too. 
Thursday  night  she  saw  him  at  church,  she 
said.  I  can't  make  out  whether  it  was  any 
thing  more  than  a  friendly  meteting,  but  I 
guess  that  was  all.  And  I  don't  know  as  there 
is  anything;  and  I  don't  know  but  there  is. 
Anyway,  I'm  going  to  give  'em  a  chance  to 
find  out.  I  know  John  Loring  and  Helen 
Ray  thought  they  belonged  to  each  other 
once,  for  good  and  all.  And  I  know  some 
thing's  come  between  'em,  but  I  don't  know 
what." 

Something  had  come  between.  Mrs.  Shir 
ley  had  stated  the  case  correctly,  both  as 
regarded  the  past  and  present  status  of  the 
two  persons  she  was  interested  in.  Ten  years 
before,  John  Loring,  fresh  from  college  and 
after-training,  had  returned  to  his  native  town, 
ready  to  put  out  his  sign  with  the  "M.  D."  he 


54  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

had  been  earning,  affixed  to  his  name,  and  to 
settle  among  his  kindred  and  townsmen  in  the 
prosecution  of  his  calling.  And  he  had  hoped, 
too,  that  about  the  time  he  should  hang  out 
the  aforesaid  sign  with  its  fresh  lettering,  a 

CJ  O  " 

certain  little  brown  house  on  a  sunny  corner 
might  receive  the  village  doctor  and  his  bride 
as  tenants.  He  and  Helen  Ray  had  belonged 
to  each  other,  by  mutual,  tacit  understand 
ing;  and  it  was  full  of  inexplicable  pain  and 
mystery  to  our  young  physician  that  in  reso 
lute  disregard  of  this  unwritten  bond,  Helen 
should,  at  this  time  have  withdrawn  herself  so 
completely,  with  such  unmistakable  intention 
of  avoidance  and  refusal,  fron}  engagement, 
intimacy,  friendship.  He  could  not  even  gain 
opportunity  to  beg  for  explanation,  though, 
indeed,  it  was  doubtful  if  she  would  have 
unfolded  her  reasons.  All  the  hope,  and 
promise,  and  even  the  sheltering,  her  girlhood 
had  known  seemed  to  fail  Helen  Ray.  The 
farm  was  mortgaged,  and,  unless  something 
were  done,  would  soon  pass  out  of  their  hands 
altogether.  Her  father  was  despondent  and 
discouraged,  her  mother  was  ill,  her  brother 
and  sister  young  and  dependent.  There  was 
only  Helen  to  summon  and  concentrate  the  few 
and  scattering  energies  of  the  household  ;  only 


AN    OLD    SONG.  55 

she  to  care  for  the  mother  and  cheer  and  ad 
vise  the  father,  and  keep  the  house,  and  strive 
to  make  the  payments,  and  insist  on  oppor 
tunity  of  renewals  ;  only  she,  either  to  earn  a 
dollar  aside  from  the  products  of  the  farm  ; 
only  she  to  maintain  that  the  younger  daughter 
and  the  son  should  have  something  like  suit 
able  preparation  for  the  tug  their  hands  must 
lay  hold  on  by  and  by.  And  all  these  things, 
and  more  than  these,  she  had  done.  She  had 
upheld  her  father's  courage  and  incited  him  to 
close  and  profitable  cultivation  of  their  incum- 
bered  acres.  By  unremitting  care  and  insist 
ence  on  every  benefit  of  treatment  and  com 
fort,  she  had  won  her  mother  back  to  health. 
She  had  looked  after  and  sent  to  the  best  mar 
ket  every  product  that  came  within  her  pro 
vince.  She  had  done  fine  sewing  between 
whiles,  for  old  friends  in  town,  not  to  speak  of 
the  other  interminable  stitches  she  had  set  in 
garments  that  were  not  "fine,"  for  the  home- 
folks.  For  it  was  she  who  cut  and  turned  and 
sponged  and  pressed,  and  altered  and  fitted 
and  draped,  in  that  not  unimportant  part  of  the 
struggle  that  lay  in  the  region  of  "keeping  up 
appearances."  .  And,  after  a  little,  she  had 
gathered  a  music  class,  and  wTith  the  help  of 
her  beloved  piano,  secured  in  more  prosperous 


56  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

years,  had  added  not  a  little  to  the  family  in 
come.  And  she  had  not  laid  down  her  oars 
till  the  tide  had  fairly  turned.  And  when  it 
had  turned  it  came  in  with  a  rush,  and  bore  the 
little  craft  of  the  family  fortune  steadily  towards 
prosperity.  The  farm  began  to  yield  a  reve 
nue,  and  now  was  sure  of  giving  them  a  com 
fortable  living.  The  "children"  were  well  estab 
lished,  May  as  teacher  in  a  neighboring  acad 
emy,  Fred  as  foreman  in  a  large  manufactory 
not  far  distant.  And  when  there  remained  but 
one  small  payment  to  make  the  farm  theirs,  a 
legacy,  that  seemed  to  them  now  quite  a  little 
fortune,  came  to  them,  and  filled  the  measure 
of  their  content  and  competence. 

Helen  had  felt  that  she  could  not  hint  to 
John  Loring  the  reason  of  her  reserve.  She 
could  not  have  asked  him  even  to  "bide  a  wee" 
for  her  sake,  for  it  was  likely  to  be  a  long 
struggle.  "It  might  be  for  years,  and  it  might 
be  forever."  And  whether  he  had  ever  known 
or  heard  of  their  adversities,  she  did  not  know. 
He  had  changed  his  mind  about  settling  in  his 
native  Clayton.  She  had  meant  him  to  keep 
at  a  distance,  and  he  straightway  put  well-nigh 
the  breadth  of  the  continent  between  them  ; 
and,  having  won  standing  and  the  beginnings 
of  success  in  his  profession,  he  had  come  back 


AN   OLD^SONG.  57 

to  Clayton  for  an  October's  vacation ;  if  for 
any  other  object,  not  even  the  gossips  knew 
nor  could  surmise  it. 

"Perhaps  Helen  Ray  could  tell,"  suggested 
one  of  them,  tentatively  to  another. 

"Nell  Ray  !"  returned  Jennie  Austin,  in  fine 
scorn.  "Why,  she  doesn't  even  correspond 
with  him,  and  hasn't,  at  all  !  She's  as  ignorant 
as  the  rest,  you  may  rest  assured." 

And,  of  course,  the  advent  of  this  young 
physician,  with  the  possibility,  real  or  conjec 
tured,  that  he  might  settle  in  Clayton,  made 
some  stir  socially  in  the  town. 

"All  the  girls  are  after  him,"  observed  Mrs. 
Shirley,  to  her  husband. 

"And  some  one  of  them  will  be  pretty  sure 
to  get  him,  unless  he's  otherwise  engaged," 
returned  he. 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  sighed  the  wife.  "Men  have 
so  little  discernment !  The  idea  of  a  man 
looking  the  second  time  at  that  shallow  little 
Anna  Arden,  or  Marie  Nelson,  or  Eva  Man- 
ton,  when  there's  my  splendid  Helen  Ray ! 
Only  she  isn't  in  the  market,  and  never  will 
be.  Well,  I'll  try  my  tea-party  and  the  har 
vest-moon." 

At  which  her  husband  only  smiled,  but  not 
so  slightingly  as  if  h^had  not  had  previous 
4 


58  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

experience  of  his  wife's  insight,  and  her  ability 
to  make  the  simplest  means  further  her  pur 
poses . 

And  so  the  looked  for  Thursday  came,  arched 
by  skies  as  serene  as  ever  shed  October  sun 
light.  .The  two  friends,  matron  and  maid, 
had  been  together  all  day,  making  the  pretty 
little  home  gay  with  autumn  spoils,  ajid  as 
sisted  by  the  admiring  Shirley  twins,  Jack 
and  Alice.  A  pleasant  day  they  had  had. 
"The  best  part  of  your  party,  I  know,  Ada," 
said  Helen,  half  laughing,  half  in  earnest.  "1 
wish  you'd  let  me  go  home  now  !" 

"  Go  home  now,  indeed!  No,  ma'am!  And 
how  do  you  know  what's  the  best  of  it,  I  won 
der?  'The  best  is  yet  to  be, — the  last  of  life 
for  which  the  first  was  made,'  as  the  husband 
of  your  favorite,  Mrs.  Browning,  sings," 
replied  blithe,  little  Mrs.  Shirley,  as  she  sur 
veyed  with  complacency  her  festive  tea  table. 

And,  indeed,  it  was  a  very  charming  little 
tea.  The  bouillon  was  perfect,  the  sandwiches 
irreproachable,  the  rolls  were  like  feathers  for 
lightness  and  like  snow  for  whiteness ;  the 
jellies  and  preserves  had  the  ripe,  new  flavor 
such  confections,  newly  made,  ought  to  have, 
and  the  coffee  was  golden  and  fragrant,  and 
the  cake  was  a  marvellous  compound  of  sweet- 


AN   OLD    SONG.  59 

ness  and  light.  And  it  was  a  pleasant  and 
congenial  company,  also.  They  had  all  been 
schoolmates,  and  some  of  them  classmates,  in 
their  not  far  distant  youth,  clergymen  and  all. 
And  the  harvest  moon  was  shining  in  all  its 
serenity  and  glory,  when  they  rose  from  the 
table.  There  was  only  one  drawback,  if 
drawback  it  was. 

"Miss  Harris  has  sent  me  a  note,"  whis 
pered  Helen  to  their  hostess  as  they  went  to 
the  parlors.  "She  wants  me  to  stay  with  her 
to-night.  I'm  sorry,  bat  I'll  just  slip  out  early, 
and  't won't  make  any  difference.  Jack  can 
go  over  with  me,  can't  he?" 

"Miss  Harris?  O,  Helen,  what  a  pity! 
Of  course,  Jack  can  go,  but  you  can't  go  very 
early.  Why  I  depended  on  your  music,  you 
know." 

But  the  quiet  little  lady  in  golden  brown, 
careless  of  the  magic  that  slept  in  voice  and 
fingers,  was  even  quieter  than  usual  that  even 
ing,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  engaged  herself 
with  the  clergyman's  wife,  in  a  nook  equally 
remote  from  the  piano  and  from  Dr.  Loring, 
who  had  not  failed  to  be  there,  and  who,  it 
should  be  said,  had  been  pressed  into  service 
as  the  messenger  of  Miss  Harris,  an  invalid 
friend  in  the  village.  • 


60  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

But  his  blue  eyes  were  keener  than  of  old. 
He  had  not  been  watching  signs  and  symptoms 
for  ten  years  for  nothing ;  and  he  knew  how 
to  put  this  and  that  together,  too,  if  he  was  a 
man.  He  had  found  out  already,  that  the  evident 
prosperity  the  Rays  were  now  enjoying  had 
succeeded  a  period  of  trial  and  privation  ;  that 
Helen  had  had  her  share  in  the  family  stress 
and  strain,  and  had  lavished  her  young 
strength  and  her  first  youth  in  redeeming  the 
family  fortunes.  Of  the  long  illness  that 
succeeded  when  her  tense  hold  of  the  oars  be 
gan  to  slacken,  he  knew,  too,  and  her  music, 
and  herself,  as  woman,  daughter,  sister,  friend. 
And  he  could  see,  under  the  disguises  of  the 
evening's  excitement,  the  dainty  dress,  and  the 
quiet  dignity  and  cheerfulness,  that  shadows 
were  around  the  brown  eyes,  and  that  the  eyes 
themselves  were  deeper  and  stiller ;  that  the 
hands  were  thin,  not  only,  but  roughened  and 
marred ;  that  the  slight  form  was  bent  a  trifle, 
and  the  wrrists  had  been  distended  with  some 
thing  beside  piano-practice.  And  how  very 
still  she  was,  yet  how  bright  and  thoughtful 
when  she  did  speak  !  These  had  not  been  idle 
years  for  her,  nor  unfruitful  ones. 

The  little  group  at  the  piano  >vas  dissolving, 
and  Alice  Shirley,  admitted  for  the  first  time 


AN   OLD   SONG.  61 

to  a  "grown-up  party,"  came  to  beg  Helen  to 
sing. 

"Not  to-night,  Allie,"  she  answered  ;  then  as 
there  arose  a  pleading  murmur  from  other  lips, 
she  could  no  longer  refuse.  Two  or  three 
brilliant  pieces  she  played,  and  sang  one  or 
two  simple  songs,  and  was  about  to  rise,  when 
Alice  placed  before  her  another  sheet,  begging 
her  to  "sing  just  this,  Miss  Helen,  that  you 
sang  for  me  the  other  day,  and  I  won't  ask  for 
another." 

Any  other  selection  from  Ada's  music  rack 
or  her  own  overflowing  stores  would  have 
been  easier.  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
divining  that  she  could  only  escape  by  yield 
ing,  sang,  with  exquisite  simplicity,  yet  with 
feeling  and  pathos  she  could  not  conceal,  the 
old,  familiar  song  : — 

"The  puir  auld  folk  at  home,  ye  mind, 

Are  frail  and  failing  sair, 
And  -well  I  ken  they'd  miss  me,  lad, 

Gin  I  came  hame  nae  mair; 

The  grist  is  out,  the  times  are  hard,  the  kine  are  only  three; 
I  canna  leave  the  auld  folk  now, 

We'd  better  bide  a  wee ; 
I  eanna  leave  the  auld  folk  now, 

We'd  better  bide  a  wee." 

The  three  verses  of  the  song  she  sang,  straight 
through,  with  slight  and  softly-mingled  pre 
lude  and  accompanying  chords,  constrained, 
in  part,  at  least,  by  the  hush  that  fell  on  the 


62  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

little  company,  and  the  rapt  attention  they 
gave.  And  it  was  easy,  in  the  little  stir 
of  freer  movement  and  appreciative  praise,  to 
slip  out  then,  don  wraps  and  beckon  to  Ada. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  really  must  go  now.  Miss 
Harris  will  be  looking  for  me.  Where's  Jack? 
Or,  never  mind  about  the  boy,  I'm  not  a  bit 
afraid,  such  moonlight  as  it  is  !" 

But  a  deeper  voice  answered  her,  "Here  is  an 
older  Jack  at  your  service,  if  he  will  do,  or  if 
you  will  let  him  try.  I  promised  Miss  Harris 
I  would  see  you  safely  there." 

And  so,  amazed,  but  thrilling  with  a  pro 
phetic  sense  of  triumph  exceeding  her  wildest 
schemes  for  the  evening,  the  little  hostess  saw 
them  go  out  into  the  moonlight,  and  went  back 
to  her  guests  with  satisfied  heart. 

"What  a  marvellous  moon  !"  the  lady  ven 
tured  to  remark,  when  a  few  steps  had  been 
taken  in  silence.  But  as  the  only  reply  she 
got  was  an  absent,  "Yes,  very,"  she  resigned 
herself  to  silence  the  remainder  of  their  walk. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  marvellous  moon,  ft 
flooded  the  familiar  street  with  its  serene 
brightness,  and  photographed  on  dusty  street 
and  pavement  each  leaf  and  twig  of  the  over 
arching  trees.  There  was  a  warmth  in  it,  as 
of  sunlight  twice  refined,  and  fragrance,  too, 


AN    OLD    SONG.  63 

akin  to  that  distilled  in  the  dews  of  summer 
twilight ;  only,  where  that  is  of  flowers,  this 
was  of  fruits.  And  though  the  hoar-frost  was 
beginning  to  show  its  silvery  rime  here  and 
there,  and  the  flower-beds  on  either  hand  had 
their  nocturnal  coverings  of  cast-off  wraps  and 
ghostly  newspapers,  and  sable  waterproofs, 
to  protect  from  its  blackening  touches,  it  was 
not  chilly. 

All  these  things  Helen  had  had  time  to 
observe,  when  her  companion  broke  out  in 
earnest,  impetuous  speech, — 

"I've  been  a  fool,  Helen.  It's  been  grow 
ing  upon  me  this  long  while,  that  I'd  behaved 
like  an  idiot ;  but  now  I  am  sure  of  it.  And 
since  you  sang  that  song  to-night,  I  can't  help 
asking  you  if  that  was  the  reason  you  turned 
so  cold  all  at  once  ten  years  ago  ?  I  was  so 
hurt  and  dazed  at  first,  I  didn't  think  of  any 
thing  like  that ;  and  I  went  off,  and  'twas  too 
late.  But  that  was  it,  wasn't  it?  And  we 
will  set  it  right,  now,  sha'n't  we?" 

And  to  this  ambiguous  and  chaotic  declara 
tion,  Helen  could  only  answer  faintly, 

"Oh  !  John  !" 

But  John  seemed  satisfied,  and  it  was  well 
the  moonlight  could  not  photograph  sound, 
for  earnest  talk  went  on  all  the  way  to  the 


64  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

Harris  gate,  and  under  the  elms  at  the  gate 
way,  till  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  distance 
warned  them  that  Mrs.  Shirley's  tea-party  was 
over.  And  when  in  ecstatic  satisfaction,  she 
heard  of  its  result,  and  knew  that  the  young 
doctor  had  entered  into  partnership  with  old 
Dr.  Small,  well  on  in  years,  and  ready  to 
relinquish  all  save  office  work ;  and  that  the 
young  physician  would  install  his  bride  as  mis 
tress  of  the  cozy  brown  house  opposite  her 
own  home,  she  only  said  to  her  husband,  as 
rejoiced  as  she, — 

"It  was  that  moonlight,  and  I  knew  it  would 
do  it !" 

But  she  did  not  know,  though  either  of  the 
two'  interested  parties  could  have  told  her, — 
for  they  hold  the  fact  in  tender  remembrance, 
— that  the  chief  hastening  cause  was  only  an 
old 


DEACON  LANE'S  STRAWBERRY  BED. 


It  was  his  by  purchase  only,  and  there  were 
certain  conditions  attaching  thereto.  It  had 
been  prepared  and  tended  by  his  neighbor, 
Deacon  Johnson.  They  lived  on  a  high  hill 
just  out  of  Edgarly,  difficult  of  access,  yet 
commanding  a  wide  and  inspiring  view.  The 
fertile,  closely-tilled  acres  of  Deacon  Johnson's 
little  farm  adjoined  Deacon  Lane's  broad  fields 
and  valuable  woodlands,  stretching  away  from 
either  side  of  the  long,  travelled  road.  Here, 
Jerome  Johnson  had  passed  two  decades  of  his 
tranquil  life.  His  cheery,  little  wife  had  shared 
his  affectionate  tendance  of  shrub  and  tree  and 
vine  and  flower,  and  made  the  one-storied  cot 
tage  a  radiant  centre  of  peace,  hospitality,  and 
a  thousand  beneficent  ministries,  for  years. 
But  she  had  faded  out  of  life,  like  one  of  her 
own  blossoms.  Since  then  the  lonely  husband 
had  found  his  best  comfort,  next  to  the  conso- 


66  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

lations  of  the  Divine  Comforter,  which  his 
friends  well  knew,  were  staff  and  strength  and 
stay,  in  the  places  where  something  of  her 
presence  seemed  still  to  linger.  He  loved  to 
walk  in  the  garden  she  had  planned,  the  grow 
ing  orchard  they  had  planted  together,  and 
especially  to  maintain  her  modest,  though 
abundant,  accustomed  charities. 

But  perhaps  the  good  man  missed  her  care 
more  than  her  roses  and  raspberries  did,  for 
one  winter,  when  the  snow  had  lain  on  the 
windy  Long  Hill  for  months,  his  always  deli 
cate  health  gave  way.  He  must  leave  the  North 
at  once,  the  physician  said.  Only  a  Southern 
home  could  hold  him  on  earth,  if  indeed  he 
might  linger  longer  in  any  human  habitation. 
Only  his  out-door  life  through  the  summer 
months  of  years,  and  his  diligent,  generous 
tranquil ity,  had  prolonged  his  life  thus  tar. 

So  the  gentle,  lonely  man,  still  serene  and 
untroubled  for  himself,  made  his  preparations 
for  a  journey  to  Florida.  It  was  hard  parting 
with  his  home,  but  he  could  never  live  again 
in  the  North,  so  his  few,  fruitful  acres  passed 
into  his  neighbor's  hands.  It  was  late  in  Feb 
ruary  when  the  deed  was  made  out.  And  on 
the  day  of  his  departure,  Deacon  Lane  brought 
the  transfer-papers  for  him  to  sign,  though  the 
bargain  had  not  yet  been  concluded. 


DEACON  LANE'S  STRAWBERRY  BED.        67 

'There  is  one  thing,  Brother  Lane,"  began 
the  invalid,  as  he  slowly  unfolded  the  papers 
awaiting  his  sanction  and  signature,  "that  I 
meant  to  have  spoken  to  you  about ;  my  largest 
plat  of  strawberries,  you  know,  is  just  com 
ing  into  full  bearing  this  year.  There's  a  full 
acre  of  it.  I've  given  it  the  best  of  care,  and 
it  will  doubtless  yield,  with  very  little  atten 
tion,  a  very  profitable  crop." 

His  listener's  eyes  brightened  at  the  gainful 
prospect. 

"Of  course,  Brother  Johnson,  I'm  willing  to 
pay  you  what's  right.     We  can't  count  on  crops 
that  are  under  eight  feet  of  solid  snow,  but  I'm 
willing  to  make  fair  allowance." 

The  contrast  between  the  friends,  for  friends 
they  were,  and  equally  staunch,  was  striking. 
Deacon  Lane  was  short,  wiry,  and  muscular, 
with  a  sharp,  sallow  face,  and  restless,  despond 
ent  gray  eyes.  He  sat  leaning  forward  in  his 
chair,  his  fingers  moving  nervously.  Real  sor 
row  and  anxious  pity  seemed  queerly  blended, 
in  his  countenance  and  attitude,  with  the  keen 
calculation  and  satisfied  complacency  attendant 
on  the  bargain  about  to  be  consummated. 

Deacon  Jerome  was  a  tall  man,  of  massive 
frame,  ere  sickness  had  wasted  it.  His  face 
was  as  white  as  his  snowy  hair ;  he  leaned 


68  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

back  in  his  arm-chair,  his  deep  blue  eyes  bent 
in  benignant  reflection  alternately  on  his  neigh 
bor  and  on  the  unfolded  deeds  his  own  thin 
hands  held. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  add  anything  to  the 
sum  we  talked  of,"  he  said,  at  last,  slowly ; 
"but  there  are  one  or  two  conditions — " 

"You'd  ought  to  have  told  me,  Deacon," 
put  in  Mr.  Lane,  quickly,  "before  the  papers 
were  all  drawn  up/' 

But  the  other  lifted  his  hand  deprecatingly. 
"No,  I  don't  care  to  have  them  in  the  bond, 
Brother,"  he  said,  smilingly.  "Your  word  is 
enough.  It  is  only  this  :  there  are  a  few  sick 
folk  to  whom  I  should  carry  some  of  my  ber 
ries.  I  don't  want  them  to  lose  their  share. 
So,  if  you  will  promise  to  carry  them  their 
portion,  I  will  call  myself  paid." 

So,  with  visible  surprise  and  secret  reluc 
tance,  Deacon  Lane  promised.  The  deeds  were 
signed,  and  the  money  paid.  And  that  night 
he  saw  his  great-hearted  neighbor  on  board  the 
train,  looked  after  his  comfort  with  clumsy 
kindness,  and  wrung  his  hand  at  parting  with 
sincere  sorrow. 

And  then  other  interests  crowded  out  the 
thought  of  the  snow-bound  and  not  unincum- 

O 

bered  strawberry -bed.    But  ere  long  the  snows 


DEACON  LANE'S  STRAWBERRY  BED.        69 

wasted,  and  when  the  protecting  "brush"  was 
removed,  the  fresh,  vigorous  growth  of  vine 
appeared  right  queenly.  The  blossom's  opened, 
faded,  and  fell,  and  the  new,  green  berries 
began  to  form  or  "set."  Day  by  day  he 
watched  his  strawberries  slowly  swelling  and 
reddening  in  the  sweet  fierce  sun  and  shower, 
and  he  began  to  remember  his  promise.  It  had 
dawned  upon  his  recollection,  that  February 
night,  ere  the  southern-bound  train  had  gone 

O  7  O 

a  hundred  inches,  that  he  had  promised  (Oh, 
Deacon  Johnson,  benignantly  crafty  !)  to  go 
in  person,  carrying  his  gifts. 

The  Lane  household  was  a  severely  still  and 
solemn  one.  Practically,  it  was  a  childless 
home.  The  gentleness  and  self-devotion  of 
the  mother  had  so  far  failed  to  counteract  or 
compensate  for  the  father's  sternness  that  the 
children  had  early  escaped  its  doubtful  com 
forts.  The  eldest  and  staidest  had  entered  a 
village  store,  and  soon  had  a  business  and  a 
home  of  his  own.  The  second,  Theodore, 
"took  to  books."  But  he  got  scant  aid,  oppor 
tunity,  or  encouragement,  and  left  home  in 
boyhood  to  work  his  way  through  academy 
and  college.  Though  still  young,  he  had  now 
a  professorship  in  a  neighboring  city.  The 
only  daughter,  Annie,  died  in  girlhood. 


70  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

June  had  waxed  and  was  waning  when  the 
berries  ripened,  maturing  slowly.  The  clus 
ters  hung,  however,  full  and .  heavy  on  the 
rank,  vigorous  vines,  which  had  missed  the 
training  and  pruning  of  their  former  owner. 
But  Deacon  Lane  watched  vine  and  runner 
complacently,  picking  his  way  among  the 
straying  off-shoots,  turning  the  bunches,  hid 
ing  here  and  there,  to  the  sun.  He  had  two 
or  three  times  picked  a  bowlful  for  tea  ;  and 
he  discovered  that  nothing  that  had  ever  graced 
his  little  breakfast-table  had  had  so  rare, 
wholesome,  delicious  a  flavor,  and  so  inviting 
a  semblance,  as  a  dish  of  those  same,  dewy 
strawberries.  He  began  to  wonder  why  he 
had  never  had  any  before. 

"They  help  my  liver,  I  do  believe  !"  mur 
mured  the  querulous,  dyspeptic  man,  in  whose 
dietary  the  three  P's — Pork,  Potatoes,  Pie, — 
had  been  the  principal  features. 

It  was  almost  time  to  market  the  berries ; 
and  he  began  to  think  it  wrould  be,  as  it  were, 
placating  fortune  to  carry  first  some  of  his 
strawberries  to  the  sick  ones.  From  the  list 
his  friend  had  given  him,  he  chose  the  name 
of  Eben  Clark ;  and  one  bright  morning,  a 
little  basket  of  berries  in  his  hand,  he  started 
out. 


DEACON  LANE'S  STRAWBERRY  BED.        71 

Eben  Clark  was  ninety,  and  bed-ridden. 
He  and  his  feeble  wife  lived  with  their  son, 
Jonathan,  halfway  down  Long  Hill.  It  was 
years  since  the  Deacon  had  entered  their  dwell 
ing,  or,  indeed,  as  Brother  Johnson  well  knew, 
any  of  the  homes  these  names  represented. 
Yet  they  were  those  of  friends,  neighbors, 
brethren.  But  he  often  looked  longingly 
toward  this  one.  Jonathan  Clark  owed  him  a 
long-standing  debt.  It  was  not  a  large  one, 
but  enough  to  make  his  creditor  sigh  for  its 
payment,  and  notice  grudgingly  anything  like 
prosperity  or  self-indulgence  on  the  part  of 
the  debtor. 

It  was  a  small,  weather-beaten  house,  on  the 
edge  of  sloping,  sterile  acres.  Everything 
about  it  proclaimed  neatness  and  economy. 
Mrs.  Clark,  the  younger,  answered  his  knock. 

"Oh !  it  is  Deacon  Lane,  I  declare,  with 
some  berries  for  Gran'ther.  Come  in  and  see 
him  while  I  empty  the  basket.  Indeed,  you 
must,"  as  he  hesitated ;  "he's  so  childish  he'd 
never  get  over  it  if  you  didn't.  Jonathan's 
a-workin'  at  the  querry,  but  Grandma'am,  she's 
here." 

So  the  Deacon  followed  her  into  a  low-ceiled 
room,  with  whitewashed  walls  and  rag-carpeted 
floor.  A  frail  old  lady  sat  knitting  by  the 


72  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

window ;  and  propped  up  by  pillows  on  the 
great,  high-posted  bed  was  Gran'ther  Clark. 
His  gnarled,  brown  hands,  tortured  and  twisted 
with  rheumatism,  were  folded  on  the  coarse, 
white,  knitted  coverlet.  The  Deacon  shook 
hands  and  sat  down,  and  the  old  man  began  to 
talk  feebly,  of  his  pains,  his  pleasures,  "his 
folks  :" 

"I  have  suffered  consider'ble  this  winter ; 
and  I  can't  help  myself  yet,  much.  An'  Mary 
here,  is  'most  too  frail  to  move  me.  But  Jona 
than,  now,  can  lift  me  like  a  baby.  Dretful 
good  to  me,  Jonathan  is,  an'  always  has  been. 
We've  been  a  heavy  load  for  him  to  lug ;  but 
he  says,  says  he,  'Father,  I  don't. want  you 
ever  to  say  that  agin.  You've  toted  me  when 
I  couldn't  help  myself,  and  never  begredged 
it.'  An'  Jonathan's  never  begredged  ws  any 
thing  ;  an'  I'm  in  hopes  'twon't  be  much  longer, 
now — rnot  much  longer  !  Well  Deacon ,"  he 
resumed,  not  noticing  the  other's  silence,  "it 
seems  good  to  hev  you  come  in.  We  miss 
]Mr.  Johnson  a  sight.  An'  you  must  pray 
with  us  afore  ye  go.  I  used  to  hear  ye  to 
prayer-meetin'  years  ago." 

Isaac  Lane  had  not  come  there  to  pray,  but 
he  could  not  refuse;  but,  somehow,  as  he 
knelt,  his  reserve  and  his  grudging  thoughts 


DEACON  LANE'S  STRAWBERRY  BED.        73 

melted  away.  And  when  he  finished,  the  old 
man  added  his  hearty,  tremulous  "Amen !" 
and  Grandma  Clark  wiped  her  eyes  and 
thanked  him.  He  took  himself  away  very 
hastily  then ;  and  he  tried  to  forget  all  about 
it  straightway,  but  somehow  he  was  not  con 
tent  till  he  had  dropped  into  the  Post  Office, 
enclosed  in  an  envelope  addressed  to  "J.  Clark, 
Esq.,"  that  old  bill  receipted. 

The  next  name  was  Mrs.  Nathan  True.  She 
was  the  invalid  wife  of  a  former  "hand"  of  the 
Deacon's.  He  had  left  the  mill  to  the  lasting 
inconvenience  and  annoyance  of  his  employer, 
because  he  wanted,  needed,  must  have,  he 
said,  higher  wages.  A  large  tin  pail,  heaping 
full,  the  owner  of  the  strawberry-bed  carried 
this  time,  as  he  approached  Nathan  True's 
open  door.  It  was  Nathan  himself,  just  home 
from  work,  and  preparing  for  supper,  who 
welcomed  him. 

"How  are  you,  Deacon  !  Glad  to  see  you. 
Come  in,  come  in  !"  and  he  led  the  way  into 
the  middle  room,  where  the  eldest  daughter 
had  already  his  supper  ready.  Coarse  and 
simple  the  food  was,  yet  neat  and  inviting. 
The  visitor  found  himself  counting  the  chil 
dren  already  around  the  table.  One,  two, 
three,  four,  five,  six,  yes,  and  that  youngest 


74  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

in  the  high  chair  made  seven,  besides  the 
young  housekeeper.  All  those  mouths  Nathan 
True  must  feed  !  No  wonder  things  showed 
that  every  dollar  and  cent  must  yield  its  full 
value. 

"Mr.  Lane's  brought  mother  some  straw 
berries,"  said  the  father.  "Lucy,  you  put 
them  away,  or  p'raps  she'd  like  to  see  'em. 
And,  Fred,  run  and  ask  her  if  she  feels  able 
to  see  an  old  friend  a  minute." 

And  once  more  our  friend  found  himself  in 
a  sick  room.  A  pale,  wan  woman,  apparently 
suffering  with  incurable  disease,  sat  in  a  pil 
lowed  chair.  Her  eyes  were  bright,  and  her 
smile  sweet.  A  workbasket,  heaped  with  chil 
dren's  worn  clothing,  stood  near  her,  and  a 
thimble  was  on  one  thin  finger.  Mrs.  True 
was  a  sister  in  the  church,  and  it  required  no 
effort  on  the  Deacon's  part  to  be  genial  and 
kindly,  hiding  as  well  as  he  could  his  shocked 
surprise  at  the  ravages  of  sickness. 

He  did  not  stay  long.  Once  more  he  had 
something  to  think  of.  And  the  thought  would 
not  be  laid,  though  he  tried  to  content  himself 
with  urging  Mrs.  Lane  to  carry  comforts  and 
delicacies  to  "Nate  True's  sick  wife,"  himself 
driving  her  over  in  an  easy  carriage.  It  did 
not  satisfy  him  either,  though  it  surprised 


DEACON  LANE'S  STRAWBERRY  BED.        75 

Mrs.  Lane,  to  insist  on  less  work,  more  leis 
ure,  more  abundant  comfort  everyway  for  his 
own  meek  wife.  A  week  or  two  later,  he 
offered  Nathan  True  his  old  place  in  the  mill, 
and  higher  pay  than  the  employe  had  asked. 
And  he  was  ready,  too,  to  pay  more  generous 
wages  to  other  men.  He  had  seen  for  himself 
how  one  workman  lived ;  and  he  knew  that  in 
one  instance,  at  least,  it  was  neither  laziness 
nor  extravagance  that  gauged  the  measure  of 
"living  wages." 

In  the  meantime,  the  Deacon  had  been 
checking  oft',  one  by  one,  the  names  on  his 
list.  He  had  made  a  half  dozen  unwilling, 
though  not  unenjoyable,  calls.  None  of  them 
had  produced  any  striking  results,  yet  none 
had  been  wholly  unproductive  of  gracious 
influences. 

Now  only  one  name  remained — Elizabeth 
Allen.  It  was  not  the  name  of  an  aged  per 
son,  a  widow,  or  a  bed-ridden  woman.  She 
did  not  even  call  herself  an  invalid.  A  fall, 
eight  years  before,  had  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  walk  or  stand.  She  was  not  a  typical 
submissive  sufferer.  It  was,  indeed,  hope, 
rather  than  resignation,  that  sustained  her, 
though  it  was  still  hope  deterred.  There  was 
the  very  confident  assurance  of  an  able  physi- 


76  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

cian  that  treatment  at  a  certain  distant  and 
famous  hospital  would  cure  her.  But  the 
money  was  not  forthcoming,  though  they  were 
by  no  means  poor.  Twice,  what  her  fingers 
had  earned  and  hoarded,  had  been  given  to 
meet  some  emergency  of  sickness  or  family 
trouble,  and  now  her  little  earnings  were 
growing  slowly  again.  Deacon  Lane  dreaded 
this  call  most  of  all.  His  reluctance  would 
have  been  difficult  to  explain,  for  Jonathan 
Allen  had  been  an  old  friend ;  the  families 
once  were  intimate,  and  Elizabeth  had  been 
the  dear  friend  of  his  own  Annie.  But  little 
misunderstandings  and  jealousies  had  grown 
into  positive  estrangement.  And  it  did  not 
soften  the  Deacon's  resentful  obduracy  to 
know  that  Theodore,  during  his  infrequent 
visits  home,  always  went  there  ;  nay,  had  even 
been  known  to  drive  over  to  the  Aliens  of  an 
evening  or  holiday  when  he  did  not  stop  at 
his  father's. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  and  the 
men  were  in  the  field,  when  Deacon  Lane  rode 
over.  Mrs.  Allen  was  baking  in  the  kitchen, 
and  with  a  brief,  though  cordial,  greeting — 
her  bread  was  burning — ushered  him  with  his 
basket  into  the  cool  sitting-room  where  Eliza 
beth  sat,  busied  with  her  needle-work.  Always 


DEACON  LANE'S  STRAWBERRY  BED.         77 

dignified  and  at  ease  of  yore,  he  wondered  why 
the  young  lady  should  flush  and  start  as  he 
entered.  Nor  was  it  quite  easy  to  maintain  a 
conversation.  But  she  soon  recovered  herself 
and  talked  as  brightly  as  of  old. 

As  he  went  nearer  to  examine  the  dainty, 
beautifully-shaded  work  she  wished  him  to  see, 
he  saw,  lying  in  her  work-basket,  a  letter, 
directed  to  herself,  its  seal  just  broken.  It 
was  a  thick  letter,  and  the  Deacon  was  con 
fident  that  it  was  addressed  in  his  son  Theo 
dore's  peculiar  hand.  Like  a  stream  of  light 
the  circumstance  illumined  a  thousand  unheeded 
happenings, — unnoticed  in  his  own  hard,  self 
ish  reserve.  The  embroidery  on  which  she 
was  working,  the  prospect  of  cure  of  which 
she  spoke  so  hopefully,  the  letter  there,  the 
remembered  visits, — yes,  and  the  long,  long 
years  of  waiting  ! 

Ah  !  did  he  know  less  of  his  boy's  heart  and 
hope,  of  his  love  and  pains,  than  strangers 
did  ?  Had  he  been  so  busy  heaping  up  that 
he  had  forgotten  to  use?  Were  real  estate, 
and  bank  stock,  and  moneyed  capital,  so  much 
more  precious  than  love  and  life?  He  had 
been  blind!  But  it  "was  not  too  late,  even 
now,  and  he  saw  ! 

Again  that  day,  at  sunset,  while  Farmer 
Allen  stood  in  his  wide  barn-door,  Deacon 


78  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

Lane  drove  over  the  cross-road  and  up  the 
grassy  lane.  He  did  not  go  to  the  house  ;  his 
business,  he  thought,  was  better  done  with  the 
father,  and  it  was  more  easily  accomplished 
than  he  had  feared. 

"I  won't  deny  it  has  been  hard,  Deacon," 
said  the  farmer ;  "hard  for  us,  and  harder  for 
Elizabeth,  but  she  never  complains  nor  loses 
heart.  Doctor  Bell  is  certain  she  can  be  made 
to  walk  as  well  as  anybody  if  she  can  go  to  the 
hospital.  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  she  won't, 
that  she's  had  half  enough,  or  more,  twice. 
The  first  time,  her  mother  was  sick,  and  she 
used  it  for  that.  Then  a  note  I'd  signed  came 
back  on  me,  and  she  helped  me  out  with  that. 
And,  perhaps  you  don't  know  it,  but  since 
Theodore  has  had  his  professorship,  he  wanted 
to  pay  for  her  to  go  and  be  treated,  but  she 
wouldn't  let  him.  I  haven't  told  her,  but  I've 
been  in  hopes,  when  my  crops  come  in,  I 
could  give  her  enough,  with  what  she's  got. 
I'm  a-planning  for  it." 

But  Deacon  Lane  had  a  plan  of  his  own. 
He  had  a  will  of  his  own,  too,  and  it  did  not 
take  long  to  convince  the  father  and  mother 
of  the  wisdom  of  his  "way.  Elizabeth  was 
harder  to  persuade,  but  she,  too,  was  finally 
won  over.  Theodore  was  left  in  the  dark  for 
the'  present. 


DEACON  LANE'S  STRAWBERRY  BED.         79 

Before  the  last  berry  had  shrunken  on  the 
strawberry  vines,  or  the  Deacon  had  had  time 
to  count  his  receipts,  Elizabeth  was  on  her 
way  to  the  hospital.  It  was  almost  Thanks 
giving  time  when  she  came  back,  her  own 
active  self.  It  was  a  happy  party — a  family 
party,  the  Deacon  called  it  slyly,  with  a  glance 
at  Elizabeth,  though  all  the  Aliens  were  there, 
as  well  as  the  Lanes — that  gathered  at  the 
Deacon's  on  Thanksgiving  day. 

And  before  the  strawberries  had  ripened 
again,  in  early  June,  there  was  a  wedding  at 
Fanner  Allen's,  and  Professor  Theodore  and 
his  wife  Elizabeth  were  domiciled  for  the 
summer  in  the  vine-hung  Johnson  cottage. 

Deacon  Lane  still  cultivates  a  strawberry- 
bed.  He  has  had  to  re-set  the  old  one,  and 
has  enlarged  it.  He  thinks  he  has  improved 
upon  it  in  some  respects.  The  berries  are 
larger  and  seem  of  better  flavor.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  the  fruits  of  his  own  Christian  charac 
ter  are  certainly  more  abundant  and  genial  and 
mellow  as  the  years  go  by. 


A  TARDY  VALENTINE. 


It  was  the  mildest  day  of  the  season,  and 
the  fairest.  So  lovely,  indeed,  that  it  had 
already  been  named  "a  weather-breeder"  sev 
eral  times  in  Pomfret,  for  the  typical  New 
Englander  is  always  suspicious  of  unusual 
serenity,  whether  of  foitune,  manners,  or  the 
weather. 

But  the  tender  blue  of  the  sky,  now  fast 
turning  to  amber  in  the  light  of  the  near  sun 
set,  was  still  almost  cloudless.  Against  it  the 
leafless  oaks,  the  sturdy  hemlocks  and  the 
darker  evergreens  on  the  wooded  hills,  stood 
out  distinctly,  while  a  group  of  white  birches, 
very  near  the  horizon,  crossed  the  azure  with 
strands  of  silver  in  a  bit  of  dainty  color  that 
an  artist  would  have  coveted  for  his  canvass. 

But  Mrs.  Wills,  who  had  sought  her  west 
attic  room,  to  search  through  its  well-assorted 
piece-bags,  standing  in  a  row,  like  so  many  very 


A    TAEDY   VALENTINE.  81 

rotund  and  headless  ghosts,  hardly  stopped  to 
glance  from  the  window  that  framed  this  Feb 
ruary  picture.  The  log-cabin  quilt  she  was 
piecing  lacked  in  one  color. 

"Too  much  grey  for  the  scarlet,  by  -half," 
she  said,  half  aloud.  "And  I  do  believe  I 
shall  have  to  dye,  unless  I  did  save  those  red 
flannel  petticoats.  I'm  sure  I  can't  remember." 

The  bags  yielded  their  various  stores,  but  to 
little  purpose. 

"One  skill — h'm — why,  I  gave  the  others  to 
Jane  Gunnison.  I  aint  sorry,  either,  but  I 
could  feel  to  wish  for  a  little  more  myself  just 
now.  Let  me  see  !  Why,  there  is  that  rem 
nant  of  red  flannel  I  bought  so  long  ago.  Twas 
a  sizable  piece,  and  I  remember  putting  it  in 
new  camphor  only  last  spring.  And  I'd  just 
as  lief  use  it." 

The  bags  were  tidily  repacked,  and  Mrs. 
Wills  crossed  the  room  and  opened  a  drawer 
in  the  antique  mahogany  bureau  beside  the  win 
dow.  The  roll  of  flannel  chanced  to  be  at  the 
back  'of  the  drawer,  and  two  boxes,  one  of 
paste-board,  time-stained  and  fragile,  the  other 
of  oak,  filled  the  nearer  space.  The  deep 
drawer  was  full  of  shadows,  and  Mrs.  Wills 
moved  the  lighter  box  injudiciously,  so  that  it 
was  presently  aslant  the  drawer  and  wedged  in. 

5 


82  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

A  vigorous  pull  released  it,  and  parted  at 
the  same  time,  lid  from  box  and  side  from  bot 
tom,  scattering  its  contents  as  she  lifted  it  out, 
over  all  the  adjacent  floor.  These  consisted 
chiefly  of  old  letters,  very  yellow  as  to  paper 
and  envelope — where  they  possessed  the  latter 
— and  very  much  faded  as  to  the  ink,  defining 
the  precise,  carefully  formed  words  and  letters. 
A  few  old-fashioned  visiting  cards  were  among 
them,  and  a  photograph  or  two ;  also,  a  thin, 
small,  oblong  package,  neatly  wrapped  in  tis 
sue  paper,  now  gray  with  years.  She  had 
placed  all  the  rest  in  the  oaken  box,  discarding 
the  other,  when  she  picked  up  this. 

She  held  it  in  her  hand  a  minute,  a  shadow 
in  her  pleasant  eyes,  and  a  drooping,  sorrow 
ful  curve  taking  its  place  among  the  finer  lines 
around  her  firm,  placid  mouth,  where  the  cares 
and  trials  of  sixty  years  seemed  to  have  been 
folded  away  snugly,  that  they  might  take  to 
themselves  just  as  little  space  and  attention  as 
possible,  and  then  she  sat  down  and  opened 
the  paper. 

An  ancient  valentine,  of  the  fashion  of  forty 
years  before,  fell  out.  It  revealed  now  its 
original  delicacy  of  coloring,  and  the  paper 
outside  the  quaint,  filagreed  design  was  tine 
and  glossy.  A  pink  anchor  sheltered  a  verse 


A    TARDY   VALENTINE.  83 

at  once  fond  and  tender,  evidently  the  expres 
sion  of  friendship  rather  than  love.  On  the 
inner  leaf,  in  ruled  spaces  left  for  them,  names 
had  been  written  : 

To 
Lucinda  Sinclair 

from 

Frances  Bushfield, 
and  the  date,  February  the  fourteenth,  184 — . 

The  envelope  was  unaddressed,  and  Mrs. 
Wills  regarded  both  it  and  the  valentine  a  long 
time  intently. 

"I  ought  to  have  sent  it,"  she  said,  at  last, 
regretfully,  "and  not  minded  what  folks  said. 
Maybe  she  didn't  ever  say  what  they  said  she 
did  say.  And,  anyway,  who  knows  what  they 
said  first  to  make  her  say  it  ?  She  was  having 
a  good  deal  to  try  her,  with  Joe  Barrett's  going 
off  that  way,  and  her  brother  dying  as  he  did, 
and  I  s'pose  she  hardly  knew  how  she  did  feel 
for  a  while.  And  she  must  have  needed  a 
friend  them  days.  I've  always  been  disap 
pointed  in  myself  that  I  didn't  stand  by  her, 
whether  or  no,  through  that ;  that  was  none  of 
it  her  fault.  She  was  the  patientiest  girl,  and 
the  nicest !  I  wished  I'd  sent  it ! 

"And  I  don't  wonder  she  was  some  distant 
to  me  afterwards.  I'd  a'  been  so  myself,  not 


84          UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

knowing  what  reason  I'd  had  to  feel  put  out. 
She's  been  through  a  good  deal  since  then,  too, 
more  than  I  have,  though  I've  had  my  share. 
I  wonder  if  she  ever  thinks  of  them  old  days, 
and  our  good  times  together?  Why,  then1  was 
nobody,  scarcely,  I  set  such  store  by  as  I  did 
by  her.  And  I  used  to  think,  'Well,  Lucy 
and  I'll  always  be  friends  till  we  get  to  be  old 
women.' 

"And  that  was  forty  years  ago,  and  we 
haven't  crossed  each  other's  threshold,  except 
to  funerals,  and  once  or  twice  to  a  prayer- 
meeting  that  we  could't  stay  away  from  on 
account  of  Christian  feeling  and  example,  in 
all  that  time. 

"A  will  in',- true-hearted  woman  she's  showed 
herself,  and  I  guess  very  loving  to  them  that 
was  kin,  though  they're  all  gone  now,  husband 
and  all,  same  as  mine. 

"But  here  I  am  talking  about  her  as  if  she 
were  dead  and  buried,  and  I  saw  her  in  her 
pew  across  the  meeting-house  only  last  Sab 
bath  with  a  bonnet  on  that  becomes  her  extra 
well. 

"And  my  kitchen  fire'll  be  out,  and,  land 
sakes,  I  forgot  I'd  just  put  on  new  coal  to  the 
other  room  grate  !" 

The  carpeted  stairs  creaked  as  she  some 
what  stifflv  descended  them,  and  the  warm  air 


A    TARDY    VALENTINE.  85 

of  the  living  rooms,  fragrant  with  scents  oi 
geranium  and  heliotrope,  was  grateful  after  the 
chilly  atmosphere  of  the  chambers.  The  coal 
was  ablaze,  and  the  dampers  had  even  to  be 
closed  by  degrees.  Then  the  kitchen  fire  was 
low  and  the  cat  was  mewing  on  the  window 
sill  outside,  begging  to  be  taken  in  and  petted. 
From  that  side  of  the  house  was  plainly  visi 
ble  the  home  of  her  girlhood  friend,  the  brown 
house  under  the  elms,  with  sloping,  red  roofs, 
in  which  long-paned  windows  were  set,  and  the 
great  barns  "to  windward,"  making  a  promi 
nent  feature  in  the  winter  scene.  The  field 
between  lay  white  and  untrodden.  It  was 
only  a  little  distance  that  way,  though  much 
farther  if  you  followed  the  road.  But  the 
open  door  made  the  house  chilly. 

Pussy  rubbed  sociably  against  her  mistress' 
foot,  purring-loudly,  and  was  consoled  with  a 
saucer  of  milk,  "if  it  was  between  meals." 

Then  the  sitting-room  fire  needed  more  atten 
tion,  and  as  she  turned  to  the  window  again, 
she  saw  a  woman  coming  up  the  path. 

"Lucretia  Payne,"  said  Mrs.  Wills,  putting 
up  her  hands  to  smooth  her  tumbled  hair  be 
fore  the  glass. 

As  she  did  so,  she  caught  sight  of  the  tissue- 
wrapped  valentine  which  she  had  kept  in  her 


86  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

hand  when  she  came  down  from  the  attic. 

She  looked  about  her  for  a  convenient  recep 
tacle  for  it,  and  just  as  Miss  Payne's  foot 
touched  the  door  stone,  she  succeeded  in  in 
serting  it  in  her  own  square  work-bag,  hang 
ing  near. 

"Good  afternoon,  'Cretia !  You  are  a 
stranger.  Come  right  in  and  set  by  the  fire. 
What  a  pretty  day  we've  had,  but  ain't  it 
sloppy  ?" 

"Yes,"  'Cretia  assented.  "It  is  dreadful 
sloppy,  though  it's  been  a  nice  day." 

She  went  to  the  fire  and  sat  down,  replying 
briefly  and  absently  to  Mrs.  Wills'  cheerful 
talk. 

And  the  latter  said  by-and-bye  : 
"You    look    beat   out,   'Cretia.      Ain't  you 
well  ?     You'd  better  take  oft*  your  things  and 
stay  the  evening,  or  over  night.     Do." 
Her  visitor  roused  herself. 
"Oh,  yes.     I'm  well — middlin'.     But  I  was 
up  most  of  the  night.     I've  been  over  to  Mrs. 
Gruer's.     I  suppose  you  didn't  know  she  was 
taken  yesterday,  very  sick  and  sudden?" 
Mrs.  Wills  turned  pale. 
"Taken?"  she  asked,   breathlessly.    "How? 
When  ?  I  didn't  know—" 

"Taken  down  sick  all  at  once — pretty    near 
pnewmony,    so   the    doctor   said.      And   he's 


A    TARDY    VALENTINE.  87 

afraid  of  a  fever,  anyway,  though  he's  doing 
his  best  to  break  it  up.  Lute  Garvin — he 
does  the  chores  and  stays  there  nights,  you 
know — came  over  after  me,  and  I  went  right 
over  and  stayed  till  now.  I'd  have  stayed 
to-night,  too,  but  Harrett,  she's  all  tired  out 
and  about  sick  herself,  on  account  of  the  chil 
dren.  Measles,  you  know,  and  all  at  once, 
but  they  came  out  nice  and  they're  doing  well 
now,  and  I  felt  as  if  I'd  got  to  get  back.  And 
that's  what  I  came  in  for,  to  see  if  you  wouldn't 
go  over  to  Mrs.  Gruer's  and  watch  to-night ; 
she's  all  soul  alone,  but  Luther — or,"  she 
added,  hastily,  "if  it  wasn't  so'st  you  could 
go,  if  you  didn't  know  of  somebody  that  could  ? 
And  maybe  get  word  to  her.  I  would,  my 
self,  only  it's  so  late,  and  I'm  a  good  two 
miles  from  home/'  she  explained. 

"Why,  I'll  go,  myself,  of  course,  'Cretia," 
Mrs.  AVills  hastened  to  say.  "And  I'm  sure 
I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  letting  me  know. 
Roger's  doing  the  chores  now,  and  I'll  let  him 
get  his  own  supper  on,  for  once,  and  I'll  put 
my  things  on  and  go  right  over.  You'd  ought 
to  have  sent  word  to  me  before,"  said  she, 
reproachfully,  but  flushing  as  she  said  it. 
"Did  the  doctor  leave  any  word  about  the 
medicine  or  anything  ?  And  isn't  there  some- 


88  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

thing  I  could  carry  over?  The  store  is  some 
ways  off." 

"Not  a  thing,  Mrs.  Wills,  everything  is  there 
and  handy.  She  even  happened  to  have  done 
a  baking  that  day,  and  there's  victuals  a-plenty. 
And  the  directions  the  doctor  wrote  out  on  a 
slip  of  paper  that  lies  beside  the  glasses.  The 
drafts  on  her  feet  will  want  to  be  changed,  and 
maybe,  if  she  can  stand  it,  there'd  better  be 
another  mustard-plaster  put  over  her  chest. 
That's  all.  Oh,  I  forgot,  he  did  say  she  must 
have  all  the  nourishment  she  would  take.  Hot 
milk,  or  tea  and  toast,  or  gruel  with  cream,  or 
anything  like  that.  He  wants  to  keep  her 
strength  up." 

Ten  minutes  later,  Mrs.  AVills  was  walking 
swiftly  across  the  crusted  fields  toward  the 
brown  cottage.  There  had  been  a  little  foot 
path,  well-trodden,  always,  between  the  two 
houses  in  the  old  days — for  it  chanced  that 
neither  of  them  had  left,  at  her  marriage,  her 
childhood's  home — and  Mrs.  Wills  thought  of 
it  now  with  a  sigh. 

As  she  approached  the  house,  she  saw, 
through  an  open  barn-door,  Luther,  lantern  in 
hand,  and  his  arm  strung  with  milk  pails,  go- 
to  do  his  "chores." 


A    TARDY   VALENTINE.  89 

She  let  herself  in  noiselessly.  The  house 
was  very  still,  but  warm  and  inviting,  even  in 
the  twilight. 

She  laid  down  her  work-bag — her  knitting 
would  be  company  in  the  night-watches — and 
she  had  thrust  into  it,  besides  a  clean  apron  or 
two,  her  glasses  and  an  unopened  box  of  mus 
tard,  lest  the  supply  might  run  low  when  it 
was  most  needed.  And  she  took  oft'  her  shawl 
and  hood,  and  hung  them  in  the  side  entry, 
noting  as  she  did,  through  the  open  door,  the 
extreme  neatness  and  the  refined  and  cheerful 
homelikeness  the  vista  of  long,  low  rooms 
revealed. 

"Lucinda  was  always  just  so  handy!  'Twas 
born  in  her,  a  real  god-mother  gift,  I  used  to 
tell  her.  And  it  looks  as  if  she'd  somehow 
took  a  good  deal  of  quiet  comfort  here  right 
along." 

She  still  spoke  of  her  neighbor  in  the  past- 
tense,  and  when  she  entered  her  bed-room,  the 
sight  was  not  re-assuring.  The  sick  woman 
was  drowsing,  a  feverish  spot  on  either  cheek, 
while  one  thin  hand,  hot  to  the  touch,  lay  on 
the  coverlet,  twitching  nervously. 

The  bed-clothes  were  pulled  to  one  side, 
and  the  pillow  crumpled  and  aslant.  Mrs. 
Wills  straightened  the  blankets  and  deftly 


90  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

turned  and  smoothed  the  heated  pillow,  in 
serted  a  smaller  one  beneath  it  to  rest  the  tired 
shoulders,  and  all  without  disturbing  the 
sleeper.  Then  she  stood  looking  at  her  a  mo 
ment,  while  a  great  tear  welled  slowly  from 
either  kindly  eye.  She  patted  the  quilt  beside 
the  restless  hand,  less  uneasy  now,  and  went 
softly  out. 

In  the  kitchen  she  became  herself  again. 

"What  next  I  wonder?  Lights  after  fires, 
and  these  are  all  right.  I  believe  'Cretia  trim 
med  'em  all  to-day,  they're  so  full  and  shiny." 
She  lighted  two  or  three,  and  set  one,  well- 
shaded,  in  the  farther  room.  Stove  and  furni 
ture  shone  in  the  lamp-light,  and  the  tea-kettle 
was  singing. 

Stands  filled  with  thrifty  plants,  well-tended 
and  blooming,  occupied  three  windows.  Their 
leaves  were  green  and  glossy,  and  the  air  was 
almost  heavy  with  their  fragrance.  The  scents 
oppressed  her  vaguely,  and  a  tall  calla  lifted 
its  great  snowy  cone  so  ostentatiously  that  she 
was  glad  to  look  away  from  it.  By  this  time 
Luther  had  come  in,  and  she  questioned  him 
closely.  Hope  returned  as  she  did  so,  for  the 
doctor,  it  seemed,  had  spoken  for  the  most 
part  most  encouragingly. 

Supper  was  eaten,  and  Mrs.  Wills  was  wash 
ing  the  dishes  in  the  well-ordered  pantry, 


A   TARDY   VALENTINE.  91 

when  a  sound  came  from  the  sick-ioom.  She 
had  looked  in  before,  but  had  found  her  charge 
still  sleeping.  Now  Mrs.  Gruer  had  raised  her 
head,  and  leaning  on  her  elbow,  looked  con 
fusedly  around  her. 

But  she  sank  back  again,  wearily,  submit 
ting  to  be  tucked  in  warmly  again,  and  receiv 
ing  meekly  both  medicine  and  gruel  from  her 
nurse's  hands. 

She  gave  an  earnestly  curious  look  at  last 
into  Mrs.  Will's  face,  smiling  back  trustfully 
as  the  other  smiled  at  her.  Then  she  lay  down 
again  and  soon  was  sleeping  quietly. 

"She  don't  rattle  a  mite,  and  her  cough  ain't 
so  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Wills,  running  back  to 
where  Luther  sat,  struggling  with  cube  root. 

"I  do  feel  to  be  encouraged." 

And  all  night  long,  while  she  sat  watching, 
with  Luther  breathing  heavily  in  the  chamber 
above  and  her  charge  sleeping  softly  beside 
her,  her  courage  waxed. 

The  east  was  rosy  with  the  near,  late  dawn, 
when  for  the  twentieth  time  she  felt  her 
patient's  pulse,  and  touched  her  cheek,  and 
listened  to  her  breathing.  Each  time  her 
heart  had  grown  lighter,  and  now  she  said  : 

"She's  going  to  get  well  !  I  never  saw  any 
one  come  out  of  it  better  !" 


92  UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

She  slipped  away  into  the  kitchen  where  the 
fire  was  already  crackling. 

Presently,  when  Mrs.  Gruer  had  wakened, 
a  tiny  round  table  stood  beside  the  bed,  with 
a  white  cloth  laid  over  it,  and  dishes  for  two 
persons  upon  it.  There  was  besides,  a  plate 
of  delicately  browned  toast,  a  tumbler  of 
crimson  jelly,  a  tiny  block  of  riven,  dripping 
honey  comb,  on  a  glass  plate,  and  a  dish  of 
wheat,  with  a  tiny  flagon  of  cream.  And  the 
steaming  tea-pot  came  in  in  Mrs.  Wills'  hand. 
Their  eyes  met  and  lingered  in  the  look  they 
gave  each  other. 

"How  do  you  feel?  And  will  you  let  me 
bathe  your  face  and  hands  and  give  you  a  cup 
of  tea  ?  You  must  be  faint." 

"I  believe  I  am  hungry,"  said  the  invalid, 
submitting  to  the  application  of  the  hot,  wet 
towel.  "That  is  refreshing  !  Your  breakfast 
looks  so  tempting,  and  the  tea  smells  so  nice  ! 
Plow  good  you  are,  Frances  !  But,"  wfstfully, 
as  the  other  waited,  "you're  going  to  eat  with 
me?" 

"Well,  I  guess  so,"  sitting  down  beside  her. 
"You  see  I've  got  to  get  home  by  sun-up. 
Roger's  so  helpless !  But  I'll  be  right  back, 
and  stay  all  day.  JsTow  do  eat.  You  must !" 

"You're  so  good,"  the  other  said  again.  "I 
shall  be  up  and  dressed  by-and-bye." 


A    TARDY   VALENTINE.  93 

"Not  to-day  !  Perhaps,  if  you  gain  a  lot, 
to-morrow.  I  want  you  to  be  careful,"  she 
went  on,  half  bashfully,  "and  get  on  the  faster. 
You  know  the  sewing  circle  meets  with  me 
next  week,  and  I've  been  wondering  since  I 
see  you  was  coming  out  of  it  so  well,  if  you 
couldn't  come  over,  being  well  \vrapped  up, 
and  stay  over  night  with  me  !  I'd  love  to  have 
you  !"  " 

"Why,  of  course  I  can,"  Mrs.  Gruer  replied, 
"and  I  thank  you  !" 

The  little  meal  was  ended.  It  seemed  almost 
like  a  sacrament,  strengthening  both  heart 
and  body.  Mrs.  Wills  removed  the  table, 
arranged  the  invalid  comfortably,  donned  her 
things,  and  came  back  to  the  bedroom,  her 
workbag  in  her  hand. 

o  . 

"I  bought  this  for  you  forty  years  ago,"  she 
said,  huskily.  "And  I  wrote  your  name  and 
mine  on  it.  Will  you  take  it  now?  I  never 
saw  anyone  else,"  she  went  on,  laughing  trem 
ulously,  "that  those  verses  would  fit/' 

She  laid  the  faded  valentine  on  the  bed,  and 
her  friend's  hand  clasped  her  own  and/  it 
together. 


A  FAST  DAY  SERMON. 


Pastor  Allan  did  not  preach  it,  nor  hear  of 
it,  though  he  rejoiced  in  the  events  which  were 
its  results.  And  it  was  not  preached  in  the 
church  at  all,  but  in  Mary  West's  kitchen, 
where  there  were  only  two  people  present, 
and  those  two  were  alternately  preacher  and 
hearer.  An  odd  discourse,  was  it  not,  even 
for  Fast  Day?  But  then,  it  wasn't  preached 
on  Fast  Day, — all  of  it. 

It  happened  on  this  wise.  Captain  Simon 
Eastman,  on  an  April  morning,  dropped  in  at 
his  neighbor,  John  West's,  to  see  what  he  had 
concluded  to  do  about  seed-potatoes.  John 
had  gone  to  town,  but  his  sister  Mary,  who 
lived  with  him,  was  stepping  briskly  about  her 
sunny  kitchen,  where  spicy  odors  of  the  morn 
ing's  baking  mingled  with  the  scents  of  the 
oleander  and  heliotrope  and  geraniums  in  the 
south  windows.  "John  has  gone  to  the  store," 


A    FAST    DAY    SERMON.  95 

she  said,  "but  I  expect  him  back  right  away 
now.  It's  been  most  two  hours  since  he  went, 
and  if  he  didn't  have  to  go  to  the  corner,  he'll 
be  here  soon.  Sit  down,  Squire,  and  wait  for 
him,  if  you  aren't  in  a  hurry.  There's  yester 
day's  Journal  on  the  stand,  and  won't  you  try 
my  caraways  while  you  wait?"  And  she  placed 
a  blue  china  plate  piled  with  crisp,  sugary 
cookies  before  the  caller. 

"Thank  you,  Mary,  I  will  stop  a  bit,  and 
see  if  he  don't  come."  And  the  Squire  seated 
himself  in  the  old-fashioned,  calico-covered 
rocker  by  the  window,  and  unbuttoned  his 
overcoat,  helping  himself  to  the  cookies,  but 
not  unfolding  the  paper  beside  them. 

"These  are  first-rate  jumbles,"  he  said  pres 
ently,  "and  good-looking  pies  these  are,  too. 
My  mother  can't  beat  either  of  'em,  I  declare. 
But,"  he  added,  with  a  quizzical  twinkle  in  his 
keen  gray  eyes,  "seems  to  me  it  ain't  quite 
seemly  in  you  to  be  doing  all  that  baking  the 
day  before  Fast  Day.  Always  thought  you 
was  right  strict  about  such  things.  But  times 
have  changed,  and  maybe  you've  altered  in 
your  views,"  with  another  mirthful  gleam  in  his 
eyes.  "No  blame  to  you  if  you  have,  I'm  sure, 
I  don't  believe  there's  many  of  your  church 
members  but  have." 


96  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

The  color  began  to  burn  in  Miss  Mary's 
cheeks,  and  her  eyes  had  an  ominous  sparkle. 
She  put  the  last  pie  away  carefully  in  the 
pantry,  and  came  back  to  the  now  empty  oven 
to  put  a  roast  of  veal  therein. 

"No,  Squire  Eastman,  1  hain't  changed  my 
views  at  all,  and  no  more  my  customs.  I  keep 
Fast  Day  as  faithful  as  I  ever  did.  But  you 
know  John  ain't  of  my  way  of  thinking.  Sun 
days  he  keeps  like  a  Christian,  if  he  don't 
belong  to  the  church,  as  I  wish  he  did ;  but, 
like  you,  he  don't  want  to  go  without  his 
victuals  any  day  in  the  year.  And  he'll  work 
to-morrow,  if  nothing  happens,  the  same  as  he 
does  to-day,  and  expect  his  meals  the  same, 
and  so  with  his  help.  And  though  I'd  rather 
have  it  different,  still  I  can't  help  seeing  what 
my  duty  is,  both  ways." 

"And  very  good  and  accommodating  of  you, 
I'm  sure,"  interpolated  her  listener. 

"But,"  Miss  West  went  on,  while  her  eyes 
grew  brighter,  and  the  flush  on  her  cheeks 
deepened  to  a  livelier  red,  "I  think,  -as  I 
always  did,  that  it's  a  pretty  slimpsy  kind  of 
religion  that  can't  or  won't  take  one  day  in 
the  year  to  take  its  bearings,  and  throw  off 
ballast,  as  you'd  say,  being  a  sailor  once. 
We're  all  poor  creatures,  perishing  ourselves, 


A    FAST    DAY    SERMON.  97 

and  using  the  things  that  perish  in  the  using. 
And  we're  that  short-sighted,  we  mistake,  a 
thousand  times,  that  that's  passing  away  for 
that  that's  going  to  last  through  all  eternity, 
and  put  the  fleeting  things  first,  and  get  to 
loving  'em  the  best.  And  we're  all  prone  to 
evil,  and  we  get  into  evil  ways  of  one  kind 
and  another  without  realizing  it.  It's  Jude, 
ain't  it,  that  says,  'Keep  yourselves  in  the  love 
of  God ;'  but  I  think  it's  our  duty  to  take  our 
selves  in  hand  sometimes,  and  consider  our 
ways,  and  maybe  get  some  of  that  humility 
and  contriteness  that  never  fails  of  the  Lord's 
forgiveness  and  help  and  blessing." 

The  Squire  had  risen,  and  was  pacing  back 
and  forth  in  the  sunny  room,  now  and  then 
parting  his  lips  to  speak  but  refraining  till  she 
paused. 

"All  that  is  true,  Miss  Mary,  and  I  don't 
doubt  you  live  up  to  it.  But  I  s'pose  you  know 
there's  lots  of  your  folks  that  make  that  kind 
of  thing  an  excuse  for  the  other  things  they 
don't  do,  and  don't  mean  to  do,  a  kind  of  'cloak 
of  covetousness.'  There's  the  Widow  Emery, 
that  keeps  boarders  down  cm  the  plain,  and 
skimps  every  meal  she  sets  out,  they  say, 
being  the  only  one  handy  there,  and  putting 
money  away  every  month,  regularly.  She 


98  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

keeps  Fast  Day,  and  her  household, — they 
have  to ;  and  she  believes  in  it.  And  our 
neighbor,  Deacon  French,  he  won't  run  his 
manufactory  to-day,  and  his  help  must  all  lose 
it ;  for  of  course  he  tak^s  it  out  of  their  pay, 
though  he  knows  how  terribly  they  need  every 
cent  they  can  get,  with  the  hard  times,  and 
cut-doAvns  and  shut-downs  this  winter.  And 
French  is  able  to  do  differently,  or  I  wouldn't 
blame  him.  And  there's  a  dozen  others  will 
keep  Fast  Day,  and  maybe  save  a  dollar  by 
doing  it,  when  they  wouldn't  think  of  giving 
a  day  or  a  dollar  to  help  them  that's  suffering 
and  needy.  They  leave  most  of  that  for  us 
sinning  outsiders  to  do.  Oh !  you  know  I 
don't  mean  you,  Mary,  so  you  needn't  feel 
hurt.  Now,  there's  poor  Jim  Carver,  laid  up 
with  rheumatism  half  the  time,  with  six  puny 
children  and  a  sick  wife.  And  Carver's  as 
good  and  true  a  Christian  as  ever  lived  in 
Clayton,  and  so  is  she.  I  declare,  I  can't 
believe  Christians  have  a  right  to  sit  down  and 
fast  and  pray  even  one  day,  when  they  should 
be  using  time  and  money  to  do  something  for 
Jim,  and  the  like  of  him.  John,  you  know, 
who  ought  to  have  known  Christ  better  than 
Jude,  humanly  speaking,  says,  'He  that  loveth 
not  his  brother  whom  he  hath  seen,  how  can 


A    FAST    DAI1    SERMON.  99 

he  love  God  whom  he  hath  not  seen  ?'  'And 
whoso  hath  this  world's  good  and  seeth  his 
brother's  need,'  and  doesn't  have  compassion, — 
you  know  John  asks  again,  how  can  God's 
love  be  in  such  a  one?  And,  'If  God  so  loved 
us,  we  ought  also  to  love  one  another.'  I've 
never  said  much  about  it,  Mary,  but  for  a  good 
while  I've  called  Him  Master,  and  tried  to 
follow  him.  And  I  think  he  accepts  me  and 
my  love,  though  I  don't  feel  to  profess  any 
thing  yet.  And  I  can't  think  I  could  serve 
and  honor  him  better  than  by  going  round 
bit  and  helping  poor  folks,  or  sick  folks,  or 
anybody  that's  in  any  trouble,  a  little  like  he 
did  !  But  there's  John,  and  I  think  I'll  go  out 
to  the  barn  and  talk  with  him  while  he  unhar 
nesses.  I'm  in  something  of  a  hurry." 

And  the  Squire  took  his  hat  and  was  gone, 
leaving  his  auditor  in  wondering  silence.  She 
sat  still  for  some  time,  oblivious,  for  once,  to 
the  fact  that  the  fire  was  low,  and  the  meat 
needed  basting,  and,  as  she  would  have  phrased 
it,  "the  forenoon  was  going."  And  she  said 
only,  as  at  length  she  went  about  her  tasks 
again  :— 

"Well,  I  do  wish  he'd  stayed  long  enough 
for  me  to  ask  something  more  about  the  Car 
vers.  I  hain't  been  in  there  for  a  few  days, 


100  UNDER    FR'IENDLY    EAVES. 

and  don't  really  know  whether  either  of  them 
is  able  to  stand  company,  or  anything."  With 
which  apparently  irrelevant  remark  she  ad 
dressed  herself  to  her  tasks  with  renewed  dil 
igence. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  coming 
home  from  a  round  of  calls,  every  one  of  which 
had  compassed  an  errand,  and  nearly  every 
one  been  on  some  brother  or  sister  in  the  church, 
that  Miss  West  found  herself  face  to  face  again 
with  her  caller  of  the  morning. 

"I've  been  looking  for  you,  Squire  Eastman. 
I  wanted  to  see  you  first  thing,  but  you'd  gone. 
You  see,"  she  went  on,  "I — that  is,  we — 
thought  we  couldn't  do  better  than  take  to 
morrow,  or  a  part  of  it  to  help  the  Carver 
family.  (Perhaps  you  don't  know,  but  the 
church  has  helped  them  regular,  since  last 
November.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there.) 
Mr.  Allan  thinks  it  an  excellent  idea,  and  even 
offered  to  change  the  meeting-hour,  if  'twould 
do  any  good.  But  we  thought,  all  taking  hold 
so,  there'd  be  time  enough  after  service.  I 
should  have  waited  to  get  your  opinion  about 
it,  but  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  But  I  was 
pretty  sure  you'd  approve  of  it.  You  know 
there's  those  front  rooms  Jim's  been  trying  so 
long  to  finish  and  get  into.  Those  rooms 


A    FAST    DAY    SERMON.  101 

would  be  ever  so  much  more  comfortable  now 
that  it's  growing  warmer  and  the  spring  rains 
are  coming  on.  Well,  the  men  are  going  over 
first,  with  their  tools  and  such,  to  put  things 
in  shape  (we're  going  to  get  the  family  off  for 
the  day)  ;  and  then  we  women  are  going  to 
take  hold  and  fix  up  the  rooms  as  nice  as  ever 
we  can.  We  shall  do  some  papering, — the 
rooms  are  all  plastered, — and  quite  a  lot  of 
people  have  promised  furniture,  or  bedding,  or 
dishes,  for  they're  out  of  everything,  most. 
And  then  everybody's  going  to  bring  some 
thing,  so  to  stock  up  the  pantry,  you  know. 
'Twill  be  a  good  thing  for  the  family,  don't  you 
think  so?" 

"Splendid!"  exclaimed  the  Squire.  "Why, 
whatever  made  you  think  of  it,  Mary  ?  'Twill 
be  a  great  lift  for  'em,  sick  and  discouraged  as 
they  are.  And  if  everybody  takes  hold,  it 
can't  help  getting  done  up  in  good  shape.  Oh  ! 
I'll  be  on  hand.  Nobody  could  have  planned 
it  any  better.  I'll  be  in  maybe,  this  evening ; 
and  anyway,  if  you  want  anything  I've  got  or 
can  do,  just  let  me  know." 

April  never  brought  a  lovelier  day  than  the 
holy-day  that  followed,  consecrated  by  formal 
proclamation  and  by  consenting  hearts — by 
the  former  to  penitence  and  prayer  and  praise, 


102  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

by  the  latter  to  loving  deeds  of  earnest  Chris 
tian  helpfulness.  The  morning1  was  quiet.  The 
prayer-meeting,  larger,  and  richer  and  fuller 
of  blessing  than  usual,  with  its  warmer  prayers, 
earnest  confession,  and  deepened  faith  and 
feeling.  But  the  afternoon  was  b~»y  indeed. 
Too  busy,  one  or  two  thought,  for  Fast  Day, 
but  only  one  or  two.  And  the  Carvers  made 
amends,  when  it  was  discovered  to  them  in  all 
the  comeliness  and  comfort  of  the  rejuvenated 
home,  by  turning  it  into  Thanksgiving  Day, 
instead. 

"Mary,"  said  Squire  Eastman,  as  the  day 
was  waning,  and  the  workers  were  separating 
in  the  fast-gathering  dusk,  "I  don't  want  you 
to  think  I  don't  appreciate  all  this  the  folks 
have  done  here.  They've  done  well,  and  they 
mean  right,  all  of  'em,  I  don't  doubt.  And 
we've  all  faults  enough  of  our  own.  And  I 
didn't  think,  really,  they  would  turn  out  and 
work  like  this.  I'm  afraid  I  wronged  'em  in 
my  heart,  judging  them  so." 

But  she  answered,  "I  don't  mind  your 
wronging  us  a  little  so  much.  But  I  can't 
help  thinking,  though,  that  you  are  wronging 
the  Lord.  If  you're  his,  doing  all  these  things 
for  him  and  out  of  love  to  him,  don't  you 
think  folks  ought  to  know  it?  Wouldn't  it 


A    FAST    DAY    SERMON.  103 

come  nearer  to  honoring  him,  so?  And  if 
you  belong  to  him,  don't  you  want  to  belong 
to  his  church,  and  be  known  for  one  of  his 
household  ?" 

And  she  was  the  only  one,  save  perhaps  Mr. 
Allan,  who  was  not  surprised  when,  a  few 
weeks  later,  Squire  Eastman  made  confession 
of  his  faith  by  baptism,  and  was  received  into 
the  fellowship  of  the  Clayton  church. 


SIMON  NEAL'S  CHARITY. 


He  was  riding  leisurely  homeward  one  June 
afternoon,  when  the  idea  first  came  to  him. 
He  had  his  Thursday's  mail  in  his  pocket,  and 
as  he  slackened  his  rein  for  the  ascent  of  one 
of  the  steep,  rocky  hills  between  Stanford 
Village  and  Hillside  Farm,  he  drew  out  his 
Journal.  He  had  read  little  when,  as  he 
unfolded  the  sheet,  he  chanced  upon  a  notice 
to  the  effect  that  the  Fresh  Air  Association 
was  about  to  begin  its  summer's  work ;  that 
funds  were  already  in  hand  and  other  contri 
butions  would  be  gratefully  received  ;  and  that 
any  persons  willing  to  receive  one  or  more  of 
the  needy  city  children  into  their  homes  for  a 
short  time,  might  address  the  manager  of  the 
association  at  1850  Blank  street.  He  read  the 
item  twice,  then  folded  the  paper  and  put  it 
away.  And  for  the  remaining  three  miles 
before  they  reached  the  Farm,  Sol,  the  hand- 


SIMON  NEAL'S  CHARITY.  105 

some,  intelligent  bay,  felt  that  his  master  was 
pre-occupied.  But  this  pre-occupation  shall 
give  us  opportunity  to  observe  more  closely 
this  man  with  the  bronzed  cheek  and  the 
kindly  smile,  and  to  read,  as  story-tellers  may, 
his  history  and  his  environment.  His  hair  is 
white,  though  he  is  but  fifty ;  the  eyes  are 
grey,  wistful  and  gentle.  A  kindly  smile 
plays  sometimes  about  the  set  lips.  A  look 
as  of  loneliness  is  in  the  steady  eyes  ;  and  he 
has  an  air  of  self-mastery  that  distinguishes 
him  from  most  men. 

Twenty  years  ago,  he,  then  not  yet  thirty, 
had  brought  to  the  pleasant  farm  which  was 
his  inheritance,  his  young  wife,  Hannah.  A 
gentle  woman,  with  a  sweet  voice,  a  willing 
hand,  a  true  and  trustful  heart.  Life  had 
gone  well  with  them  for  a  few  years,  and  its 
best  gifts  had  been  showered  upon  them 
Then,  without  a  warning,  sickness  came, — 
diphtheria,  malignant,  fatal,  —  and  in  three 
short  weeks  Simon  Neal  sat  in  his  desolate 
house,  bereft  of  wife  and  children.  He  had 
neither  brother  nor  sister  to  soothe  his  mad 
dening  anguish,  or  help  lift  the  burden  of  his 
lonely  sorrow.  How  he  lived  for  months 
afterward  he  neither  knew  nor  cared,  nor 
could  he  afterward  bear  to  remember.  The 
6 


106         UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

faces  of  neighbors  irritated  him.  Their  well- 
meant  consolations  seemed  maddening  mock 
eries.  His  work,  his  farm,  his  business,  went 
whither  they  would. 

But  at  length  light  dawned  on  this  chaos. 
A  friend  of  his  boyhood,  Julian  Kirle,  came  to 
Stanford  to  preach  in  the  little  church.  And 
the  minister,  finding  among  the  souls  he  fain 
would  shepherd,  this  school-mate,  Simon  Neal, 
so  sorrowfully  changed,  spared  neither  sym 
pathy,  effort,  entreaty,  prayer,  nor  anything 
that  Christian  brotherliness  could  devise,  to 
win  the  sorrowing  man  to  the  light  that  could 
alone  illuminate  his  dark  way, — "the  Light 
that  lighteth  every  man  that  cometh  into  the 
world."  And  at  last  the  pastor's  efforts 
availed.  Slowly,  hesitatingly,  Simon  Neal 
opened  the  doors  of  his  desolated  life, — 
opened  them  Heavenward  that  God's  love 
might  come  in, — opened  them  earthward  and 
outward  that  living  help  might  go  to  those  in 
any  need.  And  so  at  last  peace  came. 

He  still  lived  alone.  Near  kindred  he  had 
none.  A  cousin,  Martha  Spear,  whose  hus 
band's  farm  adjoined  the  Xeal  homestead,  kept 
the  few  rooms  he  used  in  order,  and  washed 
and  churned  and  mended  for  him.  She  cooked 
his  simple  food,  such  as  he  did  not  himself 


SIMON  NEAL'S  CHARITY.  107 

prepare,  for  he  was  "handy  as  a  woman  and  as 
neat  as  wax,  himself,"  the  neighbors  said. 

But  by  this  time  Sol  has  climbed  the  last 
hill,  has  entered  the  wide-open  gate,  and 
paused  at  the  door.  And  as  the  master  of  the 
house  roused  himself  from  his  reverie  and 
sprang  out  he  ejaculated,  "I'll  do  it." 

And  Sol  pricked  up  his  long  ears,  turned 
his  great  brown  eyes  to  look,  and  whinnied  a 
satisfied  assent. 

The  horse  was  groomed  and  stalled  and  fed. 
Barn  and  shed  and  stable  were  locked  after 
the  cows  had  come  up  the  lane  and  been  milked. 
The  tea-kettle  he  had  put  on  over  a  freshly 
kindled  fire  was  singing  cheerily  when  at  last 
he  was  ready  for  his  solitary  supper.  Solitary, 
yet  neither  untidy  nor  uninviting.  His  deft 
and  accustomed  hands  soon  made  ready  the 
meal,  and  the  tired  man  ate  and  drank.  It 
was  a  quaint  and  cheerful  room,  neither  kitchen 
nor  parlor  nor  dining-room,  but  serving  for 
all  three,  a  "living-room." 

The  bright  yellow  floor  shone  with  varnish 
and  cleanliness.  On  the  painted  walls  hung 
various  relics  of  by-gone  days.  A  brass-framed 
mirror  hung  over  the  low  mantel,  and  gay  ever 
lastings  stood  in  tall  vases  below  it.  An  old- 
fashioned,  many-shelved  dresser  revealed  stores 


108         UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

of  dainty  and  curious  china,  and  other  pieces, 
fragile  and  quaint  were  on  the  crimson  covered 
tea-table.  Opposite  the  dresser  was  a  tall  sec 
retary,  its  deep  shelves  overrunning  with  books 
new  and  old.  A  stand  beside  it  held  yet  other 
books,  and  piles  of  papers  and  magazines.  A 
slender  vase,  with  June  roses  in  it — had  Martha 
Spear  placed  it  there,  or  the  master's  hand? — 
stood  there,  and  the  sweet,  subtle  odor  mingled 
with  the  scents  of  summer-time  that  stole 
through  the  half-open  window. 

Simon  Neal  finished  his  supper  and  put  away 
the  remnants  thereof.  He  fed  the  great  yellow 
cat  that  followed  him  about,  and — laugh  not, 
O  more  masculine,  less  "handy"  reader — he 
washed  and  wiped  and  put  away  his  few  dishes 
and  the  strainer  and  milk-pails.  Then  he 
seated  himself  at  his  desk  in  the  secretary,  and 
wrote  a  letter.  It  was  addressed  to  1850 
Blank  street,  and  was  such  a  letter  as  the 
manager  of  the  charity  whose  office  was  at 
that  number  did  not  often  receive.  In  the 
letter  he  offered  to  receive  into  his  home  for 
the  month  of  July  some  needy  child,  a  little 
boy  it  must  be,  and  he  told  also,  as  in  honor 
bound,  something  of  his  circumstances,  prom 
ising  good  food  and  care,  and  referring  to  the 
village  clergyman.  He  enclosed,  also,  a  check 


SIMON  NEAL'S  CHARITY.  109 

large  enough  to  send  'two  or  three  poor  waifs 
many  miles  into  the  country.  He  was  on  his 
way  to  town  with  it  next  day  when  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  ought  to  consult  his  good  cousin 
Martha.  So  he  stopped  there. 

"Martha,"  said  he,  "I  don't  know  as  I  ought 
to  have  done  it  without  asking  you,  but  the  let 
ter  isn't  mailed  yet — I've  written  to  tell  'em  I'd 
take  one  of  their  starving  gamins  a  few  weeks, 
fresh  air  charity,  you  know,  I  could  take  care 
of  some  youngster  as  well  as  not.  Should 
rather  like  it  if  he's  the  right  kind." 

"Take  a  boy?"  echoed  Mrs.  Spear,  thinking 
it  would  be  much  more  to  the  purpose  if  he 
would  take  a  woman  and  a  wife.  "Oh  !  I  un 
derstand  now.  A  visitor,  you  mean.  Well,  I 
don't  know,  Simon,  it  might  be  a  good  thing 
for  you,  and  then  again  it  mightn't.  But  it 
wouldn't  make  any  odds  to  me,  'twon't  be  any 
more  work  hardly." 

And  Simon  mailed  his  letter.  The  manager 
at  1850  read  it  with  some  surprise  and  more 
than  once.  Then  she  read  it  aloud  to  two  or 
three  lady  members  of  the  board  who  chanced 
to  be  in  the  office  at  the  time. 

"Do  you  know  of  any  child  that  ought  to 
go?"  she  asked.  "You  see  he  wants  one  boy, 
a  month.  A  week  apiece  for  four  boys  would 
do  more  good." 


110  TINDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Harrington,  one  of  the  most 
active  of  the  advisory  committee,  "I  know  of 
a  child  to  whom  and  to  whose  mother  it  will  be 
a  providence.  Mrs.  Hart,  on  Pleasant  street ; 
she  is  ill ;  must  go  to  the  hospital  for  a  while 
for  treatment.  She  has  only  this  one,  a  boy  of 
six,  and  her  means  are  small.  They're  not  at 
all  common  poor  people,  and  I'm  sure  this  Mr. 
Neal,  or  whoever  he  is,  would  like  Bennie.  I 
will  see  the  mother  myself  to-night." 

So  Mary  Hart,  a  widow  who  supported  her 
self  and  her  child  by  middle  class  dressmaking 
found  her  burden  of  anxiety  a  little  lightened 
by  our  friend's  offer.  She  had  hardly  known 
which  way  to  turn,  as  her  health  gave  way,  and 
she  felt  every  day  taking  something  from  her 
little  savings,  and  from  her  strength.  She 
could  go  to  the  hospital — that  had  been  ar 
ranged — and  there  seemed  a  hopeful  certainty 
that  a  few  weeks'  sojourn  there  would  restore 
in  great  measure  her  accustomed  health.  But 
in  the  meantime,  what  would  become  of  Ben 
nie,  her  earthly  all  ?  This  question  had  haunted 
her  by  day  and  by  night.  A  thousand  plans 
had  presented  themselves,  to  be  rejected. 

"Where  will  Bennie  go  while  mother  goes  to 
the  hospital  to  be  made  well?"  she  asked  him, 
at  last,  one  day,  in  despair. 


SIMON   NEAI/S    CHARITY.  Ill 

The  child's  eyes  deepened  and  then  bright 
ened. 

"I'll  go  off  into  the  green  country,"  he  said, 
"where  the  little  birds  and  the  chickens  and 
the  lammies  are."  And  he  clapped  his  hands. 

And  now,  behold !  that  was  where  he  was 
going.  Mrs.  Harrington  had  brought  the  letter 
and  left  it  with  her,  and  the  mother  read  it 
many  times  between  the  lines  and  carefully. 
Something  about  it  reassured  her.  It  could 
not  seem  otherwise  than  the  one  thing,  and  a 
safe,  good  thing  for  Bennie  to  do. 

Yet  it  was  with  a  very  heavy  heart,  bur 
dened  more  for  him  than  for  herself  that  she 
bade  him  good-bye,  and  *vrent  to  bear  the  pain 
that  awaited  her. 

Mr.  jN'eal  was  waiting  his  little  guest  at  Stan 
ford  Station.  It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon,  and  the  countryside  was  very  fair  to  look  - 
upon  as  they  rode  along.  Mr.  Xeal  scanned 
the  little  face  with  its  great  brown  eyes,  intently. 
He  saw  with  satisfaction  the  look  of  pleasure 
deepen  and  grow  more  radiant  as  vista  after 
vista  of  green  fields  and  scattered  farms,  and 
tiny  villages,  and  sparkling,  emerald-fringed 
lakes  and  azure  hills  opened  before  them  as 
they  rode  onward.  And  he  noticed,  too,  the 
exquisite  neatness  that  marked  the  child,  his 


112  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

evident  refinement  and  the  stump  of  worthy 
lineage  he  bore.  % 

"I  guess  he'll  do  !  And  I  think  he'll  like 
pretty  well,  too,"  he  said  to  himself.  And  so 
it  proved.  Unalloyed  joy,  but  for  the  absence 
of  his  mother,  filled  the  long  summer  days  for 
Bennie  Hart.  The  old-fashioned  farm  house, 
with  its  quaint  belongings,  was  beautiful  to  him. 
The  fields  about  were  full  of  ''unexplored  re 
mainders"  in  the  shape  of  flower  and  tree  and 
berry,  bird  and  grasshopper,  and  butterfly. 
The  half-neglected  garden  and  the  shady 
orchard  were  a  dream  of  delight.  While 
barn  and  shed  and  work-shop  never  lost  their 
fascinations.  He  was  a  frank  and  truthful 
little  fellow,  with  only  the  natural  roguishness 
of  childhood,  and  a  boy's  inquisitiveness.  And 
there  was  a  certain  happy  winsomeness  about 
him  that  made  him  liked  at  once. 

They  were  happy  weeks  io  Mr.  Xeal  too. 
It  was  pleasant  to  see  that  little  china  bowl 
and  plate  opposite  his  own  place,  and  to  make 
ready  'the  child's  bread  and  milk  before  he 
drank  his  own  coffee  in  the  sunny,  cheerful 
mornings.  And  it  was  right  good  to  see  that 
bright  face  tete-a-tete,  where  he  had  been  soli 
tary  so  long.  This  child-guest  too,  failed  so 
far  of  filling  the  place  of  his  own  loved  ones, 


SIMON  NEAL'S  CHARITY.  113 

that  it  was  hardly  a  painful  reminder  of  his 
losses. 

"I  declare,"  said  Mrs.  Spoor,  one  day,  to 
her  husband,  as  she  returned  from  her  cousins, 
''I  have  not  seen  Simon  in  such  good  courage 
for  a  long  time.  That  child  perks  him  right 
up.  Seems  if 'twas  just  what  he  wanted." 

Mary  Hart  wrote  frequent  letters  to  her 
boy,  letters  which  his  host  must  read  to  their 
pleased  recipient.  And  he  volunteered  to  be 
amanuensis  to  Bennie,  for  he  knew  the  mother's 
heart  must  crave  news  of  her  darling.  And  he 
sometimes  enclosed  a  few  lines  on  his  own  be 
half  to  assure  her  of  her  boy's  well-being. 
And  indeed  the  child  throve  wonderfully  at 
Hillside  Farm.  A  more  boyish  beauty  began 
to  take  the  place  of  the  child's  delicate  win- 
someness.  And  when  it  seemed  probable  that 
Mrs.  Hart  would  not  be  able  to  leave  the  hos 
pital  so  soon  as  she  had  hoped,  Bennie's  friend 
was  only  too  glad  to  write  and  offer  to  keep 
the  child  through  August  also,  or  even  longer. 

So  it  was  that  in  the  golden  sunset  of  a  Sep 
tember  day  a  slender  dark-clad  woman  walked 
hesitatingly  up  the  yard  after  the  East  Stan 
ford  stage  had  rumbled  by,  and  knocked  at 
Simon  Neal's  door.  He  sat  at  his  tea  table, 
though  the  meal  was  done,  and  Bennie  had 


114  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

slipped  from  his  stool  and  was  deep  in  some 
illustrated  books  on  the  table  in  the  farther 
corner  of  the  room . 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  does  Mr.  Simon  Neal 
live  in  the  neighborhood  ?" 

He  had  not  time  to  answer,  for  Bennie  had 
caught  his  mother's  voice  and  was  in  her  arms 
almost  before  the  question  had  passed  her 
lips.  But  when  she  had  satisfied  her  longing 
eyes  with  the  sight  of  the  boy's  now  round 
and  rosy  face,  his  sturdier  limbs,  and  his  own 
brown,  answering  eyes,  Mr.  Neal  came  for 
ward  to  beg  that  she  would  sit  and  rest  and, 
before  she  could  refuse,  had  poured  for  her  a 
cup  of  tea,  hot,  fragrant,  stimulating,  with 
real  cream,  moreover.  Faint  from  her  journey 
and  its  excitements,  she  could  but  partake, 
wondering  much  at  the  house  and  its  owner, 
yet  wondering  not  at  all  that  Bennie  loved 
him  and  that  she  had  instinctively  trusted  his 
letter.  But  she  soon  recollected  herself,  the 
time,  the  place,  the  host. 

"A  bit  of  unlocked  for  good  future  in  the 
payment  of  an  old  debt,  made  it  possible  for 
me  to  do  what  the  doctor  advised  so  strongly, 
take  a  trip  into  the  country.  So  of  course  as 
soon  as  I  could  travel,  I  came  to  find  Bennie," 
she  explained.  "And  I  never  can  tell  you  how 


SIMON  NEAL'S  CHARITY.  115 

much  I  thank  you  for  all  your  great  kindness 
to  him." 

"Not  at  all,  madam  ;  I  am  the  debtor  for  the 
boy's  companionship.  Right  good  comrades,  we 
are,  eh,  Bennie  ?  But,  Madam,  you  must  not  go 
back  to  the  hotel ;  here  is  my  cousin,  Mrs. 
Spear ;  her  summer  boarders  went  last  week, 
and  she  has  plenty  of  room,  and  would  make 
you  welcome."  So,  with  Bennie  to  pilot  her, 
Mrs.  Hart  went  back  to  the  house  she  had 
passed  a  little  before,  and  Mrs.  Spear,  as  her 
cousin  had  promised,  gave  her  hospitable  wel 
come.  Mrs.  Hart  stayed  there  a  month,  first  as 
boarder,  then  half-guest,  half-seamstress,  put 
ting  in  repair  her  hostess'  simple  wardrobe, 
while  Bennie  vibrated  between  the  farms. 
Then,  loath  to  leave  Stanford,  with  its  pure 
air,  its  lovely  hills,  its  honest  friends,  its  atmos 
phere  of  kindliness,  she  rented  rooms  in  the 
town,  and  put  out  her  sign,  "Dressmaking." 
And  she  was  soon  earning  enough  to  make  her 
comfortable,  contented,  hopeful. 

It  was  hard  for  Mr.  Nealto  part  from  Bennie. 

"Didn't  know  how  much  I  should  miss  the 
little  chap,"  he  mused  over  his  solitary  break 
fast,  the  day  after  Bennie's  departure.  But  he 
had  the  boy  out  for  little  visits  every  now  and 
then, — anight,  or  a  day,  or  over  Sunday,  when- 


116  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

ever  he  could  get  his  mother  to  spare  him.  And 
always,  when  the  farmer  went  to  town,  he  car 
ried  something  for  Bonnie,  Tallman  sweets, 
Nodheads,  or  Blue  Pearmains ;  winter  pears, 
or  nuts,  or  pop-corn ;  yellow  crook-necked 
squashes,  some  of  the  butter  and  cheese  Bennie 
like  so  much. 

"Really,  Mr.  Neal,"  said  Mrs.  Hart  one  day, 
as  he  came  in,  burdered  as  usual,  "I  think  you 
are  'most  too  kind  to  Bennie." 

"Oh,  them  apples  came  off  Bennie's  tree, 
you  know." 

"But  the  butter,  and  the  vegetables,  and  the 
potatoes." 

"Well,  Bennie  helped  hoe,  didn't  you,  lad? 
And  we  took  care  of  the  things  together, 
didn't  we?" 

"But  at  this  rate,"  said  the  mother  laugh 
ingly,  "he  would  have  an  interest  in  half  the 
farm  !" 

"It  rather  looks,"  said  Mrs.  Spear,  one  day, 
"as  though  Hillside  might  some  time  have  a 
mistress  as  well  as  a  master.  And  I'm  sure  I 
hope  so.  But,  then,  you  never  can  tell.  If 
only  the  gossips  don't  spoil  it  all  !" 

The  gossip's  tongues  were  busy — so  busy 
that  Mr.  Xeal  began  to  go  less  frequently,  and 
Mrs.  Hart  to  invent  excuses  for  denying 


SIMON  NEAL'S  CHARITY.  117 

Bennie  some  of  his  frequent  visits  to  the  farm. 
But  the  boy  had  a  severe  illness  in  April,  and 
nothing  could  keep  his  good  friend  away. 
And  when  the  child  was  convalescent,  of 
course  Mr.  Neal  must  come  often  to  see  him 
and  to  take  him  to  ride.  And  one  May  day, 
when  Stanford  and  Hillside  were  every  day 
taking  on  their  old,  familiar  summer  beauty 
he  came  in,  the  boy  being  outside  with  his 
playmates. 

"Nearly  as  well  as  ever,  he  is  now,"  said  his 
mother,  "and  gaining  every  day." 

"Yes,  he's  picked  up  a  good  deal,  I  can  see* 
Now  if  he  only  could  come  out  to  the  farm  for 
the  summer,  'twould  just  set  him  up  again." 

"He  don't  seem  to  want  to  go  away  from  his 
mother  much  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  a  little 
nervously. 

"No,"  said  Simon  Neal,  "he  don't  want  to 
go  without  his  mother.  And  I  don't  want  him 
to.  Can't  you  come  Mary — to  stay?"  And 
Mary  went. 


FREE  AND  EQUAL 


The  great  barn  doors  were  wide  open,  one 
east  and  one  west,  and  the  fragrant  June  wind 
drew  in  and  out.  The  sun,  nearing  the  hori 
zon,  shone  in  the  west  door  on  the  littered 
floor  and  yawning  mows.  A  row  of  patient 
cows,  the  sweet  breath  of  the  shady  pastures 
in  their  nostrils,  stood  in  the  "tie-up,"  waiting 
the  milker,  who,  milking  stool  in  one  hand, 
and  milk  pail  in  the  other,  advanced  leisurely 
to  his  task.  The  slender,  milky  stream,  flow 
ing  under  his  hand,  beat  a  musical  tattoo  in  the 
bottom  of  his  tin  pail  for  a  minute  or  two,  and 
as  the  pail  filled  up,  the  sound  grew  softer. 

In  the  interval,  the  man  became  aware  that 
someone  was  speaking,  or  reading,  or  declaim 
ing,  close  by.  Some  sentences,  enunciated 
with  deliberate  distinctness,  reached  his  ears  : — 

"We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident : 
that  all  men  are  created  equal ;  that  they  are 


FREE    AND   EQUAL.  119 

endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain  unalien- 
able  rights ;  that  among  these  are  life,  liberty, 
and  the  pursuit  of  happiness." 

Here  the  reader,  or  speaker,  stopped. 

"Freem  !     Freem  !     Can  you  hear  that  ?" 

"Land  alive,  yes  !" 

"Every  word, plain,  you  sure?" 

"Every  word  an'  letter." 

"All  right !  You  know  I've  got  to  read  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  at  the  exhibition 
the  night  before  the  Fourth,  and  I  thought  I'd 
come  out  here  and  practice,"  and  the  boy 
returned  to  his  retreat,  in  a  high,  far  corner 
of  the  almost  empty  haymow,  and  to  his  ora 
torical  practice,  well  content. 

"Thought  likely  'twas  Roy,  up  to  something 
or  other,"  murmured  the  man.  The  pail  was 
full,  and  a  little  snowy  stream  tinkled  again 
in  the  bottom  of  another.  It  had  died  away 
into  a  softer  flow,  when  Roy,  beginning  anew, 
pronounced  again  the  words  his  one  listener 
had  caught  before.  They  arrested  his  attention, 
and  called  into  definite  shape  certain  thoughts 
vaguely  dawning  within  him.  Some  liberty-lov 
ing  revolutionary  spirit  in  the  words  took  hold 
of  him  as  there  was  need  it  should.  Freem 
Burt  had  never  declared  his  independence  yet, 
though  he  was  past  twenty-two.  Freem  Burt, 


120  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

they  called  him,  and  he  and  they  wrote  it 
"Freeman,"  on  the  rare  occasions  when  it  was 
written  anywhere.  But  he  knew,  if  no  one 
else  did,  that  once  it  had  been  something  else. 
"Free  and  Equal  Burt"  was  the  unusual 
name  his  half-drunken  father  had  given  the 
baby  boy,  long  ago.  The  young  man  felt 
dimly  its  ridiculousness  and  its  incongruity. 
And  he  felt,  in  a  dumb,  half-conscious  fashion, 
its  pathos.  Little  of  boyhood's  freedom,  or 
manhood's  liberty  and  equality,  he  had  known. 
lie  had  been  bound  out  when  a  boy  to  a  cer 
tain  Barzilla  Sparks.  He  had  had,  on  the 
farm,  food,  shelter,  clothing, — work:  of  the 
first  three,  a  comfortable  sufficiency  ;  of  the 
latter,  an  uncomfortable  abundance,  and  all  of 
the  coarsest  kind.  But  it  had  been  home  to 
him,  or  all  the  home  he  had  ever  known. 
And  even  after  his  twenty-first  birthday  had 
come  and  gone,  and  his  twenty-second,  he  had 
stayed  on.  Squire  Sparks  was  glad  enough 
to  have  him,  though  he  turned  deaf  ears  to  the 
hints  the  man  dropped  regarding  the  wages 
that  ought  now  to  be  his. 

"You  have  what  you  need,  don't  ye,  Freem  ?" 
he  would  say.  "You  don't  go  hungry  ever, 
nor  suffer  for  nothing,  do  ye?  'A  man's 
wages'  that  you're  harping  about, — a  man's 


FREE    AND    EQUAL.  121 

wages,  is  mighty  uncertain.  If  you  git  your 
keep,  you've  got  it  about  all.  That's  all  I  git ;" 
and  the  master  of  the  farm  would  go  off  to  his 
desk  in  the  "sittin'-room,"  to  reckon  the  inter 
est  due  on  certain  mortgages,  or  consider  the 
disposal  of  the  quarter's  gains  from  farm  and 
store  and  mill.  And  the  next  time  he  went  to 
town,  he  would  bring  home  a  new  pair  of  stout 
shoes,  or  a  pair  of  coarse  pants,  or  a  straw 
hat,  or,  if  it  were  winter,  a  gay  "comforter," 
for  the  man. 

If  he  had  known  what  was  working  in 
Freem's  mind,  he  would  doubtless  have  dealt 
more  liberally  with  him.  The  "man's  wages" 
Freem  coveted,  as  manhood's  due,  the  Squire 
would  have  paid,  and  more  than  that,  rather 
than  part  with  him.  But  Freem's  thoughts 
were  his  own,  and  he  shared  them  with  no  one. 
And  it  was  as  well  that  he  should  not  be 
made  content,  even  for  a  time,  at  the  Sparks' 
homestead.  Freem  felt  this,  dimly,  himself. 
From  the  door  of  the  "tie-up"  he  could  see  the 
spreading  boughs  of  the  trees  in  the  great 
orchard.  He  knew  how  much  of  the  small, 
puckery  fruit  went  'into  the  cider-mill ;  he 
knew  his  own  work  in  connection  therewith, — 
work  that  he  despised  and  dreaded,  though  it 
had  its  pleasures. 


122  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

But  Freern  had  signed  Roy's  temperance 
pledge  a  little  while  ago,  and  he  meant  to  keep 
it.  This  much  of  manliness  he  wanted  to  hold 
to.  Perhaps,  by-and-by,  it  would  lead  to 
something  more.  But  he  could  not  keep  that 
pledge  where  he  was,  he  knew  well.  And  he 
had  begun  to  feel,  too,  even  before  he  signed 
it,  that  it  was  going  to  be  harder  for  him  to 
hold  to  clean,  sober,  manly  habits,  every  year 
he  lived  there.  Yet  the  place  was  dear  to  him  ; 
all  the  best  years  of  his  poor  life  had  been 
spent  there.  He  had  never  known  anything 
like  comfort,  or  the  certainty  of  hardly  the 
next  poor  meal,  or  a  clean,  warm  bed,  before. 
And,  though  he  hardly  owned  it  to  him 
self,  I  think  he  rather  distrusted  his  power 
of  making  his  way  among  men  in  the 
world,  even  in  a  poor,  toilsome  fashion. 
Of  tramp-life  he  had  an  instinctive  abhorrence 
and  dread.  He  had  no  trade,  and  "dull  times" 
were  so  sure  to  recur !  If  he  had  been  certain 
of  the  poorest  living,  he  would  have  gone  forth 
long  ago. 

The  closing  sentence  of  the  Declaration  of 
'70,  uttered  and  reiterated  with  varying  inflec 
tions,  and  with  all  the  sonorous  emphasis  Roy's 
boyish  voice  could  give  them,  sounded  in  his 
ears  as  he  finished  milking.  Freem  went  and 


FREE  AND  EQUAL.  123 

stood  in  the  door  that  opened  toward  the  sun 
set.  He  was  thinking  hard, — so  intently  that 
he  did  not  notice  the  hushed,  cool  world,  so 
green  and  beautiful,  nor  the  crimsoned  skies, 
though  he  had  always  had  a  dumb  delight  in 
them  and  the  twilight.  Across  the  wray  was 
a  little  white  hou.se,  where  one  of  the  Squire's 
employees  lived, — John  Mayne  by  name. 
There  was  a  little  garden  at  the  side,  and  a  tiny 
flower-bed  in  front.  And  John  Mayne's  wife 
was  singing  softly  an  old  hymn,  to  the  child 
going  to  sleep  in  her  arms. 

What  might  it  be  to  have  a  home  of  one's 
own, — such  a  home  as  that !  How  hard  and 
steadily  a  man  could  work,  and  take  comfort 
in  it,  if  it  were  for  others,  his  own  !  Would 
the  years  ever  lead  him  to  such  depths  of  joy 
as  this  ?  He  hardly  framed  the  question  ;  it 
was  a  dumb  yearning,  rather  than  a  wonder, 
in  his  heart. 

But  something  whispered  in  him  : — "Homes 
are  for  men,  not  for  cowards  !" 

"I  ain't  a  coward,  an'  I  won't  be !"  said 
Freem  Burt,  resolutely,  answering  his  own 
accusing  thought.  And  with  that  he  straight 
ened  up,  took  his  brimming  milk-pails,  and 
went  along  the  narrow  little  path  through  the 
grassy  yard  to  the  house.  And  that  very 


124  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

night  he  told  Barzilla  Sparks,  busy  with  his 
never-ending  calculations  at  the  old  secretary, 
that  he  was  about  to  look  for  work  elsewhere. 

To  say  that  Squire  Sparks  was  aston 
ished,  would  be  to  state  the  fact  very 
mildly.  He  regarded  Freem  as  much  a 
fixture  as  the  beams  in  the  old  barn.  So 
much  astonished  was  he,  he  had  at  first  no 
words  at  all.  Then,  recovering  himself,  and 
of  course  setting  himself  to  the  task  of  winning 
back  his  trusty  help,  he  hardly  knew  whether 
to  be  indignant  or  facetious,  and  so  was  both 
alternately,  at  Freem's  expense.  But  Freem 
was  not  to  be  moved.  Slowly  as  he  had  come 
to  his  resolution  of  independence  and  its 
declaration,  once  made,  every  hour  only  con 
firmed  him  in  it. 

"Who  is  the  knave,"  growled  the  Squire, 
"who  has  had  the  despicable  meanness  to  come 
sneakin'  'round  hirin'  my  man  right  out  from 
under  my  nose  ?" 

"Tain't  any  one,"  returned  Freem. 

"Why,  where  ye  goin'?  Don't  ye  know 
what  you're  goin'  to  do  ?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  work  and  earn  my  own  livin' 
— a  man's  honest,  independent  livin',"  an 
swered  Freem,  with  some  fire  in  his  gray 
eyes.  "I  don't  know  where,  yet,  nor  what." 


FREE    AND    EQUAL.  125 

Then  was  the  Squire  once  more  astonished. 
The  idea  that  his  man  was  leaving  him  for  any 
other  reason  than  the  inducement  of  a  good 
situation  with  some  of  the  farmers  around,  or 
perhaps  some  simple  assured  employment  in 
the  village,  had  not  occurred  to  him.  But  the 
facts  re-assured  him  somewhat.  Freem  might 
look  around  a  little,  or  even  hire  out  some 
where  through  haying,  but  he  would  be  glad 
to  come  back  soon.  A  temporary  absence, 
even  at  this  busy  season,  might  perhaps  be  put 
up  with,  for  the  sake  of  what  might  be  later. 
He  concluded  it  was  best  to  play  the  part  of 
friend  and  patron,  and  even  conceal  his  ire. 

"Well,  Freem,"  he  said,  at  last,  "I  hope 
ye'll  prosper,  I'm  sure.  An'  don't  be  in  a 
hurry  about  takin'  your  things  away.  Stay 
with  us  a  few  days  while  you're  looking  fer 
another  job ;  you're  welcome  to.  An'  Mis' 
Sparks  most  likely'll  have  somethin'  fer  ye, — 
some  socks  or  mittens,  or  a  shirt  or  two, 
mebbe.  An'  come  back  an'  see  us  when  you 
get  out  of  work,  or  have  a  chance." 

Freem  thanked  him,  and  went  out,  thankful 
for  a  chance  to  stay  a  few  days,  till  he  should 
find  his  work,  if  it  were  near  by,  yet  deter 
mined  none  the  less  to  find  it  soon. 

Nevertheless ,  the  search  proved  not  an  easy 
one,  nor  soon  successful.  He  started  out  with 


126  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

good  courage,  but  every  day  lost  a  little  of  his 
hopefulness,  as  every  place  seemed  closed  to 
him.  Where  was  the  chance  for  him  to  be 
honest  and  independent,  a  man  among  men? 
Every  avenue  to  manhood,  as  he  understood 
it,  seemed  closed  and  barred  to  him.  It  was 
close  upon  haying  time,  and  the  farmers 
seemed  all  to  have  hired  their  hands  for  the 
season.  Many  of  them  knew  him  to  be  "good 
help,"  and  would  have  been  glad  to  hire  him, 
had  he  appeared  a  little  earlier.  The  Squire, 
meanwhile,  Avas  complacent  and  friendly. 
Things  were  turning  out  even  better  than  he 
had  hoped.  Freem  could  not  prosecute  this 
hopeless  search  much  longer ;  he  would  be 
glad  to  turn  to  with  the  rest  next  week  in  the 
haying  field.  And  Freem  was  both  discour 
aged  and  perplexed.  He  would  have  been 
even  more  despondent,  but  for  John  Mayne. 
This  man  was  proving  himself  a  friend  in  need' 
and  in  deed.  The  little  white  house  opened 
its  doors  to  him  of  an  evening  or  on  Sunday, 
and  Sunday  was  a  pleasant  day  there.  They 
made  it  holy-day  and  holiday,  in  homely  coun 
try  fashion.  And  every  glimpse  of  this  simple 
Christian  home-life  made  Freem  long  for  man 
hood's  vantage,  to  win  manhood's  guerdons. 

He  had  another  friend,  too,  Roy  Allen,  the 
child  of  Squire  Sparks'  only  sister,   now  in 


FREE    AND    EQUAL.  127 

California  with  her  husband.  Roy  sympathized 
right  heartily  with  Freem's  efforts,  and  aided 
and  abetted  as  far  as  lay  in  his  power.  His 
influence,  though,  seemed  very  little,  and  his 
help,  also,  for  a  time. 

But  it  wras  through  Roy,  at  last,  that  Freem's 
''chance"   came.      Roy  Jiad   a    friend,    Hugh 

«/       '  O 

Clyde,  of  his  own  age,  to  whom,  of  course,  he 
confided  Freem's  story.  Hugh's  father,  Colo 
nel  Clyde,  was  the  owner  of  a  foundry  in  the 
town.  And  it  transpired  that  there  was  need 
of  another  man,  to  do  certain  heavy  work,  for 
which  no  apprenticeship  was  necessary ;  and, 
hearing  of  Freem,  and  his  struggle  for  inde 
pendence,  Colonel  Clyde  resolved  to  give  him 
the  place.  Now,  a  foundry,  of  all -workshops, 
was  to  Freem  most  fascinating.  It  had  a 
stronger  attraction  than  field  or  orchard,  and 
the  hot  breath  from  the  forge  was  sweeter  to 
him  than  the  wind  from  June  meadows.  The 
hammering,  the  forging,  the  riveting,  and  all 
the  mysterious  processes  the  metal  went 
through,  were  to  him  full  of  charms.  He 
longed,  oh,  how  much  !  to  be  master  of  them 
all.  And,  lo,  here  was  a  chance  to  begin  ! 
It  was  on  the  Fourth  that  the  good  news  came. 
John  Mayne  would  take  him  for  a  boarder, 
and  that  very  night  Freem  moved  his  belong 
ings  across  the  road. 


128  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

And  at  twilight,  as  he  stood  in  the  door  of 
the  little  cottage,  and  looked  out  into  the  free, 
wide  world,  so  full  of  opportunities,  it  seemed 
as  if  indeed  God's  hand  had  set  before  him  an 
open  door. 


A  CHRISTMAS  MESSAGE. 


The  evening  express  was  late  that  night. 
There  had  been  a  broken  wheel  at  starting, 
and  then,  when  fairly  under  way,  the  train 
had  been  switched  oft'  at  Waybury  to  let  the 
night  freight  pass. 

"The  last  ^witch,  they  say,  between  this 
and  Waterton,  and  the  freight  train  is  due 
here  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  So,  of 
course,  it's  our  wait,"  said  a  gentleman  who 
had  been  out  to  reconnoitre.  "But  we  shall 
soon  be  under  way  again,  and  they'll  put  on 
steam  enough  to  make  up  for  this." 

The  passengers  had  begun  to  grow  uneasy, 
there  had  been  so  long  a  delay  already,  and 
they  knew  that  there  was  no  station,  not  even 
a  junction,  at  Waybury,  in  whose  neighbor 
hood  they  must  be. 

13ut  this  reassuring  word  quieted  their  appre 
hensions,  and  they  settled  themselves  more  con- 
7 


130  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

tentedly.  They  were  for  the  most  pail  a 
cheerful  company,  or  in  a  cheerful  mood.  It 
was  Christmas  Eve,  and  "home  for  Christmas" 
seemed  written  in  almost  every  face. 

Among  the  few  who  were  not  homeward 
bound  was  the  Rev.  Arthur  Avery,  going  to 
preach  on  the  morrow — the  day  fell  on  the 
Sabbath — at  Waterton.  He  had  been  supply 
ing  there  some  weeks  past,  not  as  a  candidate, 
they  said,  nor  on  trial,  exactly;  yet  it  was 
understood  that  "a  call"  would  probably  be 
accepted.  And  the  church,  on  the  other  hand, 
though  it  waxed  critical  over  gesture,  expres 
sion,  manner,  doubtless  expressed  itself  through 
the  senior  deacon,  who  "didn't  know  as  they 
could  do  better." 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Avery  came  up  each  Satur 
day  night  from  Kingsford,  the  college  town 
where  he  had  been  born  and  bred,  where  his 
parents  still  lived,  where,  for  a  year  or  two, 
pending  a  settlement,  he  had  been  serving  in 
place  of  an  absent  professor,  now  returned, 
whither  also,  he  had  lately  brought  his  young 
wife. 

There  was  a  sprinkling  of  scholarly  men  in 
the  congregation  at  Waterton,  as  Mr.  Avery 
was  perhaps  too  well  aware.  Judge  Pitman, 
Doctor  Andrews,  Squire  Holt,  Lawyer  Sim- 


A    CHRISTMAS    MESSAGE.  131 

mons,  Mr.  Burton,  who  edited  "The  Waterton 
News,"  and  one  or  two  others.  And  the  pru 
dential  board  had  its  share,  the  young  minister 
knew.  So  he  had  not  only  been  bringing  his 
best  sermons,  from  week  to  week,  but  exerting 
himself  to  prepare  even  better  ones  than  the 
ministerial  portfolio  yet  contained.  It  was 
this  that  began  the  trouble  to-night.  He  did 
not  use  full  notes  or  manuscript  sermons,  and 
the  morrow's  message  was  now  maturing  in  his 
mind.  The  train  of  his  discourse  had  suffered 
as  many  hindrances  as  the  train  that  was  bear 
ing  him  on  to  preach  it.  Of  course  all  the 
historical  facts,  and  recondite  allusions,  and 
pertinent  quotations  he  meant  to  introduce,  he 
had  carefully  verified  in  his  study.  But  the 
sequence  of  his  topics  was  not  quite  clear,  and 
the  peroration  refused  to  take  shape  at  all. 
The  talk  and  laughter  around  him  irked  and 
disturbed  him. 

"How  long  have  we  to  wait,  do  you  know?" 
he  asked  of  his  neighbor  in  front. 

"Oh,  a  matter  of  an  hour  or  an  hour  and  a 
half,  I  should  judge.  I  believe  there  are  two 
freights  to  come  down  between  this  and  mid 
night,  and  we're  so  lata  now  we  shall  have  to 
get  clear  of  both  of  them." 

The  air  in  the  car  was  hot  and  close  ;  from 
a  window  opposite,  open  a  trifle,  came  a  breath 


132  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

of  wind  deliciously  cool,  and  through  the 
shadows  outside  he  caught  the  gleam  of  a  star. 

"An  hour  yet  and  probably  longer."  Mr. 
Avery's  head  was  aching,  and  he  was  tired. 
A  brisk  walk,  he  reflected,  would  quicken  the 
vital  currents  of  both  body  and  mind.  So  a 
moment  later  he  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
trodden  snow  between  the  tracks.  The  en 
gine  was  panting  beside  him,  and  brakemen 
and  switch-tender  went  to  and  fro,  answering 
the  enquiries  of  the  others  who,  like  himself, 
had  sought  the  air.  It  was  better  than  the 
stifling  car,  certainly.  His  head  felt  better 
already.  But  he  could  not  think  to  advantage 
in  the  bustle,  small  as  it  was. 

A  little,  beaten  foot-path  led  up  through  the 
snow  that  clothed  the  fields,  and  betrayed  the 
direction  of  the  switch-tender's  home.  And 
in  the  near  distance  the  minister  saw  the 
twinkle  of  scattered  lights,  put  out  one  by  one 
as  the  evening  waned. 

An  hour  yet ! — and  Mr.  A  very  climbed  the 
gentle  slope  lifting  his  eyes  to  the  stars,  and 
baring  his  head  for  a  moment  with  the  invol 
untary  feeling  that  he  had  stepped  into  a 
church — the  night  was  so  still,  so  serene,  so 
solemn,  the  snow  so  pure,  the  starry  canopy 
above  him  so  vast  yet  so  near.  It  seemed  to 


A    CHKISTMAS    MESSAGE.  133 

him  somehow  like  the  first  Christmas,  when 
the  world  waited  in  such  unconscious  readiness 
and  want  for  Christ's  coming — such  a  great, 
mute  expectancy  was  in  earth  and  skies.  So 
musing,  he  went  on,  till  the  whistle  of  an  ap 
proaching  train  sounded  below. 

"Time  enough  yet,"  he  thought,  "for  another 
train  comes  down  by-and-by." 

Turning  leisurely,  he  retraced  his  steps — 
he  had  gone  some  distance  through  the  fields 
— still  without  haste,  for  that  application  was 
taking  point  and  polish  very  rapidly  now. 
But  he  had  not  gone  half-way  down  the  hill 
when  another  whistle  smote  his  ear. 

The  first  freight  had  already  passed ;  this 
must  be  the  second,  and  two  minutes  later,  this 
also,  groaned  by.  Immediately  the  waiting 
train,  all  ready,  evidently,  for  a  new  start, 
shifted  to  the  other  track,  took  breath  in  great, 
fiery  gasps,  and  sped  on  its  way. 

The  minister,  meanwhile,  had  put  on  speed 
also,  and  reached  the  track  as  the  train  van 
ished  round  the  nearest  curve. 

"Got  left,  didn't  ye?"  asked  the  switch- 
tender.  "Well,  now,  that's  too  bad.  They 
started  up  quite  sudden  at  last ;  they  always 
do.  But  if  y  ou  aint  going  further'n  Waterton, 
there's  a  special  runs  up  there  about  daylight 
to-morrow  morning — switches  off  here,  too." 


134  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

"That's  just  where  I  am  going,  if  I  have  to 
walk." 

"Oh,  you're  all  right.  If  you'll  only  be  on 
hand  about  day-break,  or  a  little  afore,  I'll  put 
you  on  as  slick  as  can  be.  An'  them  specials  go 
like  the  wind,  you  know — you'll  be  there  in 
no  time — but  you  must  be  here,  and  you 
needn't  stay  out  doors  all  night,  either." 

"Oh,  I  shall  do  very  well,  I'm  a  good 
walker." 

But  the  man  shook  his  head. 

"No  need  on't !  Here's  the  Widder  Kerle 
over  here,  her  father's  bad  with  asthma,  he's 
had  a  terrible  phthisicky  spell ;  so  she  has  to 
be  up  with  him  all  times  o'  night.  She'll  take 
ye  in,  an'  I'll  go  along  with  ye.  'Twon't 
trouble  her  any,  she  ain't  that  kind  ;  wouldn't 
let  a  dumb  critter  lay  out." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  man  was  knocking 
at  the  door  of  a  wide  house  on  the  right  of  the 
widening  path,  and  explaining  his  errand  to 
the  rather  weary  yet  sweet-faced  woman  who 
answered  the  summons.  She,  too,  insisted 
that  our  wayfarer  was  welcome,  and,  since  he 
very  positively  declined  supper  and  bed,  left 
him  in  a  comfortable,  home-like  sitting-room, 
where  a  great  coal-stove  gave  out  a  delicious 
warmth,  and  a  broad  lounge,  which  she  pres- 


A    CHRISTMAS    MESSAGE.  135 

ently  supplied  with  comfortables,  promised 
rest. 

"And  you  needn't  worry  about  waking.  I 
shall  be  up,  I'm  not  going  to  bed  anyway,  I 
shall  be  up  and  down.  And  I  always  hear 
that  train.  And  don't  mind,  please,  if  you 
hear  us  stirring.  My  brother  is  ill  and  suffer 
ing  and  my  sister  came  home  yesterday  from 
the  West  with  her  little  children — one  very 
small.  Good  night,  sir  ;  I  hope  you  will  rest." 

She  closed  the  door  behind  her,  but  another, 
partly  open,  led  into  the  kitchen,  whither,  a 
little  later,  the  minister,  unable  to  sleep,  saw 
his  hostess  go,  followed  by  another  woman, 
who  was  very  like  her  only  younger,  smaller, 
slighter,  and  whose  pale  face,  sad  eyes,  and 
mourning  dress  told  of  recent  bereavement. 
A  row  of  little  stockings  of  graduated  sizes 
betrayed  their  errand.  They  filled  them 
together  with  presents,  various  and  usually 
simple,  from  the  long  stockings  dangling  their 
brown  legs  in  the  corner  beside  the  chimney 
to  the  wee  pink  sock  by  the  stove.  Before 
they  were  done  a  little  wailing  cry  came  from 
another  room,  and  the  mother  answered  it 
appearing  presently  with  her  baby  in  her 
arms,  and  sat  watching  her  sister. 

"Last  year,"  she  began,  "their  father  helped 
me.  I  wasn't  well,  and  he  went  out  and  got 


136  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

all  the  things.  Such  a  good  time  as  he  made 
for  them  !  This  one  wasn't  here  then — my 
poor,  little  fatherless  child  !"  and  the  sobs 
came,  and  tears  fell. 

The  other  let  her  weep  for  a  little,  then  she 
said  : 

"  'A  God  of  the  fatherless'  He  is,  and  our 
brother." 

"I  know,  I  know  !  And  I'm  selfish  to  add 
a  bit  to  your  burdens — you,  that  know  all 
about  it,  that  have  been  through  it  all  before 
me,  long  ago,  and  more.  Lydia,  how  did  you, 
how  could  you  bear  it  so,  and  live  on?" 

The  other  did  not  answer  for  a  little,  and 
when  she  did,  it  was  in  words  not  her  own — 
"The  Lord  is  my  light  and  my  salvation,  whom 
shall  I  fear?  The  Lord  is  the  strength  of  my 
life,  of  whom  shall  I  be  afraid?'  fl  know'  that 
my  Redeemer  liveth.'  'Lo,  I  am  with  you 
always,  even  unto  the  end  of  the  world.' " 

She  had  taken  the  child  now,  and  the  flicker 
of  the  fire  made  a  radiance  about  its  head,  and 
reflected  the  light  of  her  own  steadfast  eyes. 
She  looked  as  Mary  might  have  looked  with 
the  child  Jesus  in  her  arms. 

But  she  was  talking  now  in  an  undertone  : 
''I  didn't  know  as  I'd  be  able  to  get  Rob's 
skates ;  and  the  magazine  Jamie  wanted  so,  I 


A    CHRISTMAS    MESSAGE.  137 

couldn't  afford.  The  boys  saved  their  pennies 
to  get  May  that  book,  I  knitted  the  purse,  and 
the  apron  you  brought  is  lovely.  It  takes 
such  a  little  to  please  them.  It  isn't  the  worth 
of  the  gifts,  nor  even  having  the  things,  that 
they  enjoy  most  I  think.  It's  the  Christmas 
cheer,  I  believe.  I  try  to  be  happy  with 
them,  and  it  isn't  hard,  either.  What  a  day 
Christmas  is !  The  Day — for  everyone.  It 
takes  in  all  blessings,  doesn't  it.  And  we  feel 
it,  like  light  or  warmth,  whether  we  realize 
all  about  it  or  not.  I  saw  a  picture  once  of 
Christ  the  Consoler,  Christ  our  Comforter.  I 
always  think  of  it  at  Christmas  time.  Even 
when  my  sorrows  were  hardest  to  bear  I  was 
always  glad  of  Christmas  time.  Lena,  you 
must  go  straight  to  bed  :  I  want  you  to  let 
Rob  get  out  the  sleigh  and  take  you  to  church 
in  the  morning.  Elder  Petus  will  be  sure 
to  have  some  good  helpful  Gospel  word  for 
Christmas  Day.  Seems  as  if  every  sermon 
was  a  special  message  of  Christ." 

The  house  grew  still  again,  but  Mr.  A  very 
could  not  sleep.  Not  even  after  he  had  crept 
into  the  kitchen  and  slipped  a  shining  silver 
coin  into  each  stocking.  What  sort  of  a 
Christmas  message  would  his  elaborate  dis 
course  be  to  those  in  his  congregation  who 


138  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVE8. 

were  burdened  with  grief,  or  loneliness,  or 
want,  or  temptation,  or  care  ?  Was  it  really  the 
good  tidings  of  the  living,  loving,  present 
Christ?  Ah,  what  would  the  world  be  without 
Him?  How  truly  he  abode  in  this  woman's 
heart,  and  in  her  home  !  And  while  he  mused, 
there  came  a  vision,  infinitely  precious,  of 
how  near  God  came  when  Jesus  was  born  in 
Bethlehem ;  how,  having  entered  into  our 
human  life — how  deeply  and  really,  and  at 
what  cost  of  suffering,  only  He  can  know — 
our  Lord  is  still  sharing  it.  How  God  sent, 
out  of  His  love,  His  Son  to  declare  Him  and 
His  love. 

The  clock  in  the  corner  chimed  again,  and  a 
little  later  Mrs.  Kerle  appeared.  But  her 
visitor  was  all  ready  to  go,  thanking  her 
heartily  for  her  hospitality,  but  refusing  to 
allow  her  to  extend  it  further,  even  to  include 
a  cup  of  coffee,  which  she  begged  to  make  him. 
Half  an  hour  later  he  had  boarded  the  special, 
and  was  speeding  towards  AVaterton,  reach 
ing  the  town  just  as  the  earliest  sunbeams 
touched  the  spires,  and  ere  the  rose  of  dawn 
had  faded  from  the  Christmas  skies. 

It  was  noticed  that  Mr.  Avery  used  fewer 
notes  even  than  usual  in  the  pulpit  that  day. 
Perhaps,  his  hearers  thought,  that  was  one 
• 


A    CHRISTMAS    MESSAGE.  139 

reason  why  his  message  seenred  so  warm,  so 
rich,  so  comforting.  Ah  !  it  could  not  fail  to 
be — it  was  all  about  our  Christ. 

It  would  have  done  you  good  to  hear  the 
comments  as  the  people  went  out. 

"A  real  Gospel  sermon,"  said  Judge  Pitman. 

"It  came  right  home,"  said  the  woman  be 
hind  him,  while  her  neighbor  added,  in  a  quav 
ering  voice — she  was  old  and  feeble  : 

"It  done  me  a  world  of  good." 

Dr.  Andrews  pronounced  it  "a  most  excel 
lent  and  timely  discourse,"  while  the  editor 
declared  in  his  turn ,  that — "it  brought  the  real 
Christmas  glow." 

Mr.  Avery  did  not  hear  all  the}^  said,  but 
he  did  hear  the  call  they  unanimously  extended 
at  the  very  next  church  meeting,  and  he 
accepted  it. 


ONE  EASTER  DAY. 


In  the  heart  of  a  lovely  bit  of  country,  .set 
in  the  shelter  of  clustering  hills,  Alan  Brain- 
erd's  farm  stretched  east  and  west  its  fertile, 
well  tilled  acres.  Silvery  streams  crossed  its 
pastures,  and  here  and  there  shone  gem-like 
pond* — sapphire  under  the  clear  skies  of  May 
or  November,  emerald  when  June's  greenness 
fringed  their  sloping  banks,  and  changing  to 
ruby  and  garnet  when  the  October  woods 
leaned  over  them,  and  dropped  their  burned- 
out  leaves  into  the  mirroring  depths. 

Close  to  old  Blueridge  itself  grew  the  oaks 
and  the  birches  of  his  woodlands,  while 
down  to  the  shores  of  Little  River  spread  his 
well  watered  meadows  and  mellow  wheat- 
fields.  And  'severe  indeed  was  the  weather, 
when  some  of  his  numerous  hands  were  not 
swinging  the  axes  and  driving  the  sleds  in  the 
former,  or  guiding  the  plow,  the  mower  or 
the  reaper  in  the  latter. 


ONE    EASTER    DAY.  141 

The  nucleus  of  it  had  been  his  father's  and 
grandfather's  homestead.  Other  lands  adjoin 
ing,  or  so  near  that  it  was  easy  to  secure  the 
intervening  acres,  had  become  his  by  later 
inheritance.  And  by  well-timed  purchase, 
and  in  payment  of  long-standing  debts,  more 
had  been  added,  until,  looking  from  his  piazza 
north,  east  or  west,  he  could  see  only  his  own 
possessions.  South  of  him  run  the  highway, 
and  opposite,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road, 
were  farms  with  narrower  frontage,  stretching 
far  back  toward  the  lesser  hills  which  faced 
Blueridge. 

The  house,  in  its  outward  appearance,  at 
least,  accorded  well  with  its  master.  It  was  a 
grim,  time-defying  structure  of  stone.  Its 
wide  front  and  southern  exposure,  its  terraced 
lawn  and  massive  porch,  its  broad,  little-used 
front  door,  and  the  quaint  windows  above  the 
entrance  that  held  the  sunset  light  till  they 
glowed  like  opals,  all  suggested  gracious  pos 
sibilities,  but  joyless  actualities. 

One  thought,  as  one  passed  it  for  the  first 
time,  into  what  rich  beauty  the  place  might 
flower,  if  a  glad  household  life  were  within  it ; 
and  felt,  even  though  a  stranger,  that  its  gray 
walls  had  not  sheltered  such  an  one  for  many 
a  year. 


142  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

And  the  man  himself  reminded  you  of  some 
thing  he  was  not,  and  seemed  likely  never  to 
be.  Tall,  gaunt,  muscular,  with  firmly  set 
lips  and  keen,  stern  eyes,  and  a  reserve  neither 
audacity  nor  friendliness  could  penetrate,  his 
neighbors  would  have  found  it  easier  to  give 
him  their  sympathy  and  affection,  even  if 
unspoken,  had  he  not  so  successfully  guarded 
every  avenue  of  approach. 

Years  before,  so  long  ago  that  it  was  to  his 
younger  townsmen  hardly  more  than  a  tradi 
tion,  life  had  promised  him  very  different 
things,  and  there  had  been  in  him,  plainly 
seen,  an  answering  potency  that  seemed  likely 
to  yield  to  his  fellowmen  rich  revenues  of 
helpfulness,  a  really  noble  fruitage  of  useful 
ness  and  influence.  But  long  ere  the  vintage 
time,  even  in  the  ripening  cluster,  the  wine 
had  turned  bitter  and  acid. 

Old  women  talked  of  it  sadly  over  their  knit 
ting  or  their  teacups  when  they  visited  together, 
or  were  coaxed  to  tell  it  to  their  grandchildren 
in  long  summer  afternoons  or  lonely  evenings. 

Mrs.  Price,  grandma  to  half  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  young  at  eighty,  sat  one  wild  March 
day  in  the  chimney-corner  of  the  house  opposite 
"the  'Squire's,"  as  Alan  Brainerd  was  always 
called  when  he  had  passed  his  youth.  The 


ONE    EASTER   DAY.  143 

smoke  curled  upward  from  his  tall  chimneys, 
plain  even  in  the  whirling  snow,  and,  reminded 
thereby  of  the  lonely  master  of  the  house,  Bar 
bara  Price,  a  favorite  granddaughter,  began 
to  beg  for  the  stoiy  of  his  life,  which  no  one 
could  tell  as  grandma  could,  she  said.  "Tell 
about  what  changed  him  so,"  she  added,  "and 
makes  him  different  from  other  people.  Was 
it  just  his  trouble  ?" 

" Must  his  trouble,'  Barbara  ?  Ah,  you  don't 
know  what  that  was,  I  guess.  Though  I  don't 
mean  to  s&y  anyone  has  any  right  to  let  any 
sorrow  the  Lord  sends  spoil  his  life  or  make 
his  heart  bitter  or  cold.  But  I'll  tell  you 
about  it. 

"Alan  was  just  twenty-two  when  he  was 
married,  and  his  wife  was  Mary  Dunning. 
They  had  lived  side  and  side  all  their  lives,  and 
set  everything  by  each  other.  He  brought 
her  Mayflowers,  and  made  her  flower  garden, 
for  she  hadn't  any  brothers ;  and  he  took  her 
to  school  on  his  sled  in  winter-time,  and  filled 
up  a  corner  of  their  attic  for  her,  with  nuts, 
and  acorns,  and  traces  of  popcorn,  in  the  fall. 
She  never  had  a  word  for  anybody  else,  and 
he  never  seemed  to  know  there  was  any  other 
girl  round  where  she  was. 

"Well  's  I  said,  they  was  married,  and  he 
took  her  home,  and  both  their  folks  was  well 


144  UNDER   FRIEN.DLY    EAVES. 

pleased.  And  they  had  two  children,  only  a 
year  or  two  apart,  as  bright  and  handsome  as 
need  be. 

"Then,  pretty  soon, — they  hadn't  been  mar 
ried  more  than  five  or  six  years ;  I  guess  the 
boy,  he  was  the  oldest,  wasn't  quite  four,  and 
the  girl  maybe  a  year  old, — trouble  began  to 
come,  and  it  kept  coming,  and  steady. 

"First,  his  folks  died,  father  and  mother, 
and  brother  and  sister.  Then  hers  went,  all 
but  one  sister,  that  she  took  home  finally,  to 
live  with  her.  Then,  as  though  'twas  coming 
nearer  and  nearer,  they  lost  their  little  boy. 
That  was  a  great  stroke  to  'em,  I  expect,  but 
they  bore  up  under  it  well. 

"But  it  wasn't  but  a  little  while  before  she 
went,  too,  quite  sudden,  with  quick  consump 
tion.  And  he's  never  been  the  same  since, 
though  he  did  have  his  little  girl,  for  a  while, 
and  her  siste-r  to  take  care  of  her.  Till  by  and 
by,  diphthery  came  into  the  neighborhood — 
it  was  a  dreadful  time  tor  all  of  us,  I  can  tell 
you  :  and  the  little  girl  took  it  and  died  in 
three  days,  and  then  Nora  Dunning,  she  took 
it,  and  come  out  of  it,  but  never  got  her 
strength  back,  and  died  in  three  months  in  a 
decline.  And  that  was  all  there  was  to  go," 
the  narrator  added,  soberly,  wiping  her  eyes. 


ONE    EASTER    DAY.  145 

"Folks  thought  he  would,  and  I  guess  he'd 
have  been  right  willing,  but  the  Bruinerd  con 
stitution  is  beyond  almost  anything.  He's  had 
typhus  fever  since,  and  just  pulled  through. 
That  was,  let  me  see,  fifteen,  yes,  twenty, 
years  ago,  more,  for  aught  I  know.  He's  been 
alone  ever  since.  One  of  the  solitary  that  aint 
set  in  families,  here,  I  tell  'em.  But  I  can't 
feel  reconciled,  not  to  see  him  reconciled, 
myself;  and  now  I  don't  know  as  he  ever  will 
be.  And  still,  I  tell  'em,  it  may  be  only  his 
way  of  taking  it.  We  can't  tell  about  such 
things." 

"No,  he  hardly  ever  goes  to  a  neighbor's  or 
to  see  anyone.  And,  of  course,  bein*  that's 
the  case,  hardly  anyone  goes  there.  But  it 
isn't  true  what  they  say  about  his  being  stingy 
and  snappish.  I've  lived  by  him  fifty  years, 
and  I  know  better." 

"He  is  very  rich,"  said  another  listener. 

"I  suppose  so.  Yes,  he  must  be,  even  for 
these  days.  But,"  with  a  flash  of  resentful 
indignation,  "he  isn't  a  miser  !  He  just  hasn't 
anything  to  do  with  his  money.  He  can't  use 
it,  and  hasn't  any  of  his  own  kin  to  spend  it 
on,  and  he  don't  see  any  other  worth-while 
way  to  use  it.  I  tell  'em  Alan  Brainerd  got 
his  death  blow  twenty-five  years  back,  and  has 


146  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

only  half  lived  ever  since.  I  do  sometimes 
think  his  spirit  went  when  Mary's  did,  and 
just  as  truly.  Anyway,  I  haint  seen  anything 
that's  looked  like  it  since.  It  ain't  no  more 
like  him  to  settle  down  and  scrimp  and  save, 
than  nothing !  He  just  does  it  because  there 
aint  anything  else  for  him  to  do.  He  aint 
living,  he's  just  staying,  and  has  been.  I'm 
right  glad  he's  going  to  Boston  next  week,  if 
he  is.  I  think  he  ought  to  go  off  and  stay 
quite  a  while,  quite  often." 

Easter  came  betimes  that  year,  early  in 
April ;  and  the  month  had  already  begun 
when  Alan  Brainerd  set  out  on  his  journey. 
Up  among  the  hills,  and  in  Hilton  itself,  there 
were  few  signs  of  Spring.  Only  the  pussy 
willows  in  the  pastures,  and  the  cawing  crowrs 
in  the  woods,  and  perhaps  an  early  bluebird, 
told  that  she  was  on  her  way.  The  wrinds  still 
swrept  across  the  fields  and  moaned  among  the 
pines,  in  whose  shelter  the  arbutus  still  sheathed 
its  buds.  Even  the  wind-flowers,  frail  and 
venturesome,  had  hardly  looked  out  into  the 
slowly  softening  air.  Meadow  andbrookside, 
and  forest  path,  and  pasture-knoll  alike,  were 
covered  deeply  with  snow. 

But  here,  whither  he  went,  a  little  farther 
southward,  and  beside  the  sea,  spring  had  al- 


ONE    EASTER    DAY.  147 

ready  come.  Crocus-beds  made  bits  of  glow 
ing  color  in  the  yards  as  he  passed  through  the 
suburbs,  and  the  daffodils  held  up  their  sun- 
filled  cups  in  sheltered  places.  In  the  florists' 
windows  were  banks  of  purple  violets,  golden- 
hearted  pansies,  white  and  crimson  carnations, 
and,  outnumbering  and  outshining  all  the  rest, 
the  stainless  Easter  lilies,  for  it  was  Passion 
wreek. 

Our  friend  saw  the  open  church  doors,  and 
read  the  announcements  of  the  daily  services, 
but  found  no  time  to  attend  them.  Indeed, 
the  business  he  had  planned  to  transact  while 
in  the  city  might  have  filled  a  much  longer 
time  than  the  few  days  he  had  planned  to  spend 
there.  It  kept  him  busy  from  morning  till 
night,  and  he  found,  when  Saturday  evening 
came,  that  he  should  be  obliged  to  remain  some 
days  longer  to  complete  it.  Besides,  there  were 
on  his  list  memoranda  of  calls  to  be  made  and 
of  purchases  that  could  not  be  put  off,  while 
he  had  meant  to  give  a  day  or  two  to  the 
book-stores,  and  to  take  as  long  a  time  to  go 
about  leisurely.  So  he  wrote  to  Burns,  his 
trusted  man  at  Hilton,  not  to  expect  him  until 
that  day  week. 

Easter  Sunday  was  clear  and  bright.  The 
sunshine  came  in  at  his  window,  and  the 


148  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

chimes  played  softly,  gladly,  tenderly,  in  the 
hour  before  church-time  when  he  sat  in  his 
room,  reading  a  little,  thinking  much,  and  re 
membering,  I  am  afraid,  even  on  Easter  Day, 
only,  or  chiefly,  his  griefs  and  loneliness. 

But  even  the  long-worn  mail  of  his  sorrows 
was  not  proof  against  all  the  sweet  influences 
of  the  dear  holy-day,  whose  hope  sounded  in 
the  church  bells,  nodded  in  the  flowers  people 
carried  in  their  hands,  and  shone  in  their  faces. 
When  the  bells  were  ringing  their  last,  swift 
peals,  he  joined  the  throng. 

He  had  determined  beforehand  where  he 
would  go,  partly  out  of  a  desire  to  see  the 
building  itself,  for  new  Trinity  was  really  new 
then,  partly  because  of  the  fame  of  the 
preacher,  and  partly  because  of  a  genuine  love 
for  the  ritual  of  the  church.  Of  another  com 
munion  himself,  the  "prayers  of  the  ages" 
seemed  to  him  to  voice,  as  others  rarely  did, 
the  heart's  deep  need.  A  prayer-book,  worn 
with  daily  use,  lay  on  his  own  study-table. 

Following  a  beckoning  hand  as  he  entered 
the  vestibule,  he  was  led  to  a  seat  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  church,  beside  a  great  pillar  which 
threatened  to  shut  quite  from  his  view  the 
face  and  form  of  the  preacher.  It  did  obscure 
it  for  some  time,  then,  when  the  sermon  was 


ONE    EASTER    DAY.  149 

well  begun,  a  movement  of  the  other  occu 
pants  of  the  pew  caused  our  friend  to  change 
his  position,  softly,  to  lose  no  word  of  the 
eager  message  pouring  torrent-like,  from  lips 
and  heart  of  one  who  felt  himself  and  proved 
himself  a  messenger  of  God ;  and  he  found 
himself  facing  the  speaker,  whose  noble, 
benignant  face,  and  glowing,  steadfast,  loving- 
eyes  interpreted  as  even  his  voice  could  not 
the  words  he  uttered. 

The  years  had  brought  to  Alan  Brainerd 
their  own  interpretations  of  his  losses.  He 
had,  of  late,  especially,  been  ready  to  receive 
them,  to  see,  if  it  had  such,  the  nobler  aspect 
of  his  grief.  But  such  a  message  as  this  had 
never  come  before. 

The  sermon  has  carried,  since  that  long  ago 
Easter  Day  when  it  was  first  uttered,  its  great 
burden  of  hope  and  comfort  to  unnumbered 
hearts.  It  has  been  read  in  homes  without 
number.  There  is  hardly  a  discourse  in  all 
the  matchless  series  that  is  lingered  over  more 
thoughtfully  and  thankfully.  And  upon  this 
hearer  the  sentences  fell  'like  long- waited  show 
ers  on  thirsty  fields  that  are  withering  in 
drought. 

"It  is  the  thought  of  an  eternal  God  that 
really  gives  consistency  to  the  fragmentary 


150  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

lives  of  men,  the  fragmentary  history  of  the 
world.  A  Christ  that  liveth,  redeems  and 
rescues  into  his  eternity  the  broken,  tempo 
rary  lives  and  works  of  His  disciples.  *  *  * 
So  long  as  there  are  men  living  and  dying,  so 
long  above  them  and  around  them  there  shall 
be  the  Christ,  the  God-man,  Avho  liveth  and 
was  dead,  and  is  alive  forevermore. 

"Let  me  show  you  the  way  into,  the  way 
through  and  the  way  out  of  this  sorrow  which 
you  cannot  escape.  Into  it  by  perfect  submis 
sion,  through  it  with  implicit  obedience,  out 
of  it  with  purified  passions  and  entire  love.  *  * 

"To-day  we  can  see  that  duty  is  worth 
while.  Duty  is  the  one  thing  on  earth  that  is 
so  vital  that  it  can  go  through  death  and  come 
to  glory.  Duty  is  the  one  seed  that  has  such 
life  in  it  that  it  can  lie  as  long  as  God  wills  in 
the  mummy  hand  of  death,  and  yet  be  ready 
at  any  moment  to  start  into  new  growth  in  the 
new  soil  where  He  shall  set  it.  So  let  us  all 
consecrate  our  Easter  Day  by  resolutely  tak 
ing  up  some  new  duty  which  we  know  we 
ought  to  do.  We  bind  ourselves  so  by  a  new 
chain  to  eternity,  to  the  eternity  of  Him  who 
for  the  joy  that  was  set  before  Him  endured 
the  cross,  despising  the  shame,  and  is  set 
down  at  God's  right  hand.  ***** 


ONE    EASTER    DAY.  151 

"In  those  moments  when  Christ  is  most  real 
to  me,  when  He  lives  in  the  centre  of  my  desire 
and  I  am  resting  most  heavily  upon  His  help, 
in  those  moments  I  am  surest  that  the  dead 
are  not  lost>  that  those  whom  this  Christ  in 
whom  I  trust  has  taken,  He  is  keeping.  The 
more  He  lives  to  me  the  more  they  live.  *  *  * 

r'I  want  to  make  you  feel  the  force  of  the 
living  Christ  today.  *  *  *  If  the  city  of  our 
heart  is  holy  with  the  presence  of  a  living 
Christ,  then  our  dear  dead  will  come  to  us, 
and  we  shall  know  that  they  are  not  dead,  but 
living,  and  bless  Him  who  has  been  their 
Redeemer,  and  rejoice  in  the  work  they  are 
doing  in  His  perfect  world,  and  pass  on  joy 
ously  to  our  own  redemption,  not  fearing  even 
the  grave,  since  by  its  side  stands  He  whom 
we  know  and  love.  ******* 

''He  is  alive!  Do  you  believe  it?  What 
are  you  dreary  for,  O  mourner?  What  are 
you  hesitating  for,  O  worker?  What  are  you 
fearing  death  for,  O  man?  Oh,  if  we  could 
only  life  up  our  heads  and  live  with  Him ;  live 
new  lives,  high  lives,  lives  of  hope^  and  love 
and  holiness,  to  which  death  should  be  noth 
ing  but  the  breaking  away  of  the  last  cloud, 
and  the  letting  of  the  life  out  to  its  completion  !" 

There  was  only  the  Recording  Angel  to  reg- 


152  UNDER   FRIENDLY   E.AVES. 

ister  the  vow,  but,  as  the  preacher  ended,  Alan 
Brainerd's  heart  made  answer, silently, solemnly, 
fervently,  "I  will." 

Then,  like  one  of  old,  he  ''conferred  not  with 
flesh  and  blood,"  nor  did  he  at  first  speak  to 
any  one  of  the  message  that  had  come  to  him 
that  Easter  Day,  though  the  day  had  doubly 
fulfilled  itself  to  him. 

But  Burns,  when  he  met  him  some  days 
afterward  at  Hilton  station,  ventured  to  say, 
discerning  dimly  something  in  his  face  that  had 
not  been  there  before  : 

"You're  looking  better,  sir  !  Your  trip  has 
done  you  good,  I  guess." 

"It  has,"  said  his  master  shaking  hands 
heartily. 

As  was  characteristic  of  the  man,  the  change 
in  him  was  made  evident  to  his  neighbors  and 
townsmen  slowly,  and  in  unostentatious  ways. 
Gradually  they  realized  that  if  any  one  in  the 
village  needed  a  helping  hand,  "the  Squire" 
was  usually  the  first  to  offer  it,  and  that  no 
one  was  so  swift  to  discern  any  want  or 
trouble,  or  so  skilful  in  alleviating  it  as  he. 

Little  by  little,  the  stone  house  relaxed  its 
sternness.  Roses  grew  again  around  the  pil 
lars  and  flower-beds  around  the  terraces.  The 
windows  stood  open  all  the  June  days  through, 


ONE    EASTER    DAY.  153 

and  rustic  chairs  stood  at  hospitable  angles  on 
the  piazzas.  Flowers  and  fruit  went  from  the 
gardens  to  the  sick  and  poor,  not  to  mention 
the  more  substantial  gifts  that  orchard  and 
granary  furnished.  The  treasures  of  the 
library  were  again  and  again  offered  to  ambi 
tious  and  appreciative  youth.  The  daughter 
of  a  far-away  cousin,  with  her  little  crippled 
brother,  found  a  home  under  the  wide  roof, 
and  a  life-long  shelter  under  "the  'Squire's" 
generous  care.  Once  or  twice  a  season,  too, 
the  house  was  thrown  open  for  a  long  delight 
ful  evening,  and  all  the  townsfolk  were  bidden 
in  to  greet  its  owner,  share  its  good  cheer, 
feast  their  eyes  on  its  gathered  treasures,  and 
lose  both  prejudice  and  anxiety  in  its  genial 
atmosphere. 

The  church  was  repaifed,  the  minister's  sal 
ary  advanced,  the  academy  endowed,  a  library 
established,  and  a  variety  of  beneficent  forces 
set  in  operation  in  the  social  life  of  the  vil 
lage — changes  the  older  generation  never  ceased 
to  wonder  at,  and  the  newer  one  accepted  as  a 
somewhat  uncommon  heritage ;  one  to  be 
prized  and  guarded,  and  which  was  enhanced, 
for  a  little,  by  the  giver's  presence  among  them. 

But  only  for   a  little.     Half  a   decade,  al 
ready,  has  slipped  away  since  ;  glad  to  go,  he 
8 


154  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

passed  on — as  has  now  gone  the  noble  preacher 
to  whom  he  owed  so  much  and,  all  unknon, 
loved  and  reverenced  so  deeply — to  the  City 
that  has  in  it  no  temple ;  "for  the  Lord  God, 
the  Almighty,  and  the  Lamb  are  the  temple 
thereof." 


IN  SAINT  VALENTINE'S  TONGUE. 


The  blackberry  vines,  whose  ebon  fruit  there 
were  so  many  little  fingers  to  seize  upon,  were 
all  invisible ;  and  the  February  snows  had 
draped  the  low",  leafless  sumachs,  dwarfed  by 
the  drifts  beneath,  with  clinging,  frosty  fleeces. 
The  little,  clumsily-framed  building  faced  the 
north,  so  that  no  "ragged  beggar"  would  seek 
the  shelter  of  its  rude  porch.  Otherwise,  it 
was  very  like  the  schoolhouse  that  lived  so 
long  in  Whittier's  memory,  and  has  been  made 
imperishable  in  his  tender  lyric. 

Stoutly  built  in  the  first  place,  time  and  the 
elements  have  touched  it  but  lightly  ;  and  the 
"s'lectmen"  of  the  town  have  felt  themselves  at 
liberty  to  let  it  alone,  also.  And  so  it  stands 
with  its  "worn  door-sill,"  its  grimy,  pencil- 
marked  walls,  and  its  rudely-shapen  seats, 
whereon  many  a  schoolboy  has  left  his  "carved 
initial" — perhaps  the  most  enduring  inscription 


156  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

more  than  one  of  them  has  made — a  model, 
such  as  the  Exposition,  with  all  its  relics,  did 
not  hold,  of  the  old-time  district  school. 

Less  than  a  score  of  years  ago,  at  half-past 
four  on  a  mid-winter  afternoon,  more  than  a 
score  and  a  half  of  scholars  poured  out  of  it, 
clutching  their  dinner-pails  and  seizins:  their 
sleds,  and  carrying,  too,  with  some  care,  cloth- 
rimmed  slates  and  cajico-covered  geographies, 
for  lessons  were  assigned  to  the  older  ones,  at 
least,  on  "the  presumption  of  brains, "and  with 
a  thought  of  what  might  be  done  in  the  long 
winter  evenings. 

o 

Within  were  a  half-dozen  more,  (it  was  a 
large  district  and  they  had  a  popular  teacher) 
all  save  one  of  whom  were  scowling  over  a 
mis-said  lesson.  That  one,  having  replaced 
the  nails  over  one  of  the  windows  through 
which  the  teacher  had  renewed  the  exhausted 
air,  hasped  the  cellar-door,  and  heaped  up  the 
woodbox,  stood  by  the  stove  in  the  chilling 
room,  waiting,  yet  not  impatiently.  The  dingy 
place  was  dear  to  him,  dearer,  maybe  than  to 
any  other.  Shy,  and  awkward,  even  to  un- 
couthness,  he  stood  twirling  his  faded  cap  and 
scanning  the  algebra  problems  which  the 
teacher  had  just  placed  upon  the  blackboard, 
and  to  some  purpose,  for  before  the  dilatory 


IN  SAINT  VALENTINE'S  TONGUE.  157 

pupils  had  finished  their  tasks  he  had  framed 
the  last  equation,  pinning  it  down  with  a 
dogged  mental  repetition,  absorbing,  mean 
while,  enough  of  the  history  questions  that 
were  being  written  beside  them  to  put  him  a 
day  in  advance  of  his  class,  and  leave  to-mor 
row  for  its  own  recitations  and  the  preparation 
which  must  immediately  precede  them.  For 
the  longest,  darkest  evening  brought  little 
leisure  to  him. 

It  was  later  than  usual  when  teachers  and 
scholars  had  at  last  turned  from  the  door 
stone,  and  he  might  lock  the  heavy  door, 
pocket  the  cumbrous  key,  and  go  his  way.  He 
remembered  as  he  did  so  that  "the  Squire"  had 
gone  to  the  county  seat  to  attend  court  that 
da}',  and  would  not  be  home  till  late  at  night, 
and  that  he  had  been  charged  to  bring  home 
the  mail.  There  were  many  chores,  too,  to 
be  done  before  supper  time. 

So  he  stepped  off  briskly,  losing  some  of  his 
awkwardness  when  he  was  by  himself  in  the 
open  air,  with  the  glowing  skies  and  snow- 
wrapped  hills  looking  down  upon  him,  and 
quickening  into  consciousness  within  him  a 
sense  of  their  peace  and  beauty. 

But  this  serenity  was  banished  when,  a  few 
minutes  later,  waiting  at  the  post  office  for  his 


158  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

turn  at  the  delivery  window,  he  heard  voices 
behind  the  thin  partition,  familiar  and  girlish 
ones,  and  by-and-by  his  own  name. 

"Wherever  did  you  get  it,  Dorothy,  and 
whom  are  you  going  to  send  it  to?  It's  lovely, 
and  just  barely  in  season." 

It  was  Freda  Colton's  voice,  shrill  and  eager, 
and  a  softer  one  answered,  hesitating  and 
reluctant,  as  if  giving  up  some  secret  she  would 
have  kept,  but  could  not : 

"Uncle  Ezra  gave  it  to  me.  The  wrapper 
to  it  was  lost  in  the  mail-bag,  or  else  it  was 
put  in  without  any.  Anyway,  there  was  no 
address,  and  nothing  with  it  to  tell  who  sent 
it  or  where  it  came  from,  so  it  belonged  to 
him,  you  know." 

Ezra  Given  was  postmaster  at  Oldberg,  and 
Dorothy  Carver  was  his  niece.  But  the  other's 
harsher  tones  broke  in  again  : 

"Well,  it's  a  beauty,  the  handsomest  one  I 
ever  saw,  about.  And  that  verse  is  lovely, 
too.  Let  me  look  at  it  again,  will  you?  H'm  ! 
that  wouldn't  fit  everyone,  would  it?  Let  me 
think,  I  should  send  it  to  Will  Gushom." 

Through  the  glass  of  some  empty  mail-boxes 
the  listener  could  see  the  curl  of  the  other's  lip 
as  she  drew  away,  refolding  carefully  the 
valentine. 


IN  SAINT  VALENTINE'S  TONGUE.  159 

"They  don't  describe  him,"  she  said,  simply, 
with  a  quick  emphasis  on  the  final  pronoun. 

"Fred  Curtis,  then?" 

She  shook  her  head  again,  and  as  decidedly 
at  each  name  that  followed. 

"Ned  Armstrong?  Arthur  Ellis?  Frank 
Willman?  Well,  I  give  it  up.  You'll  have 
to  give  it  to  John  Bradley." 

The  honest  sarcasm  of  the  last  words  stung 
gentle,  reserved  Dorothy  into  unusual  warmtk 
and  frankness. 

"He  is  the  only  one  they  would  fit,  as  you 
say,"  she  replied,  and  holding  the  package 
tightly,  she  hurried  away,  glad  to  cool  her  hot 
cheeks  in  the  frosty  darkness. 

And  John  Bradley,  pocketing  the  Squire's 
mail  mechanically,  was  glad  of  the  shelter 
of  the  same  cool  shadows,  and  for  once, 
of  the  long,  lonely  walk,  albeit  he  was  late 
already.  Here  'was  something  to  think  of 
more  absorbing,  aye,  and  more  satisfying  than 
any  problem  that  book-keeping  or  algebra  or 
the  fascinating  geometry  could  furnish,  or 
history  suggest,  though  they  had  solaced  many 
a  lonely  hour. 

The  Squire  brought  the  mail  himself  the 
next  night,  throwing  it  on  the  table  a  little 
contemptuously  as  he  entered. 


160  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

"Nothing  to  speak  of,"  he  said,  "but  a  letter 
for  you,  Mary,  from  Lois,  I  guess.  The  rest 
are  circulars  and  papers.  One  of  them  is  for 
you,  John." 

And,  though  his  second  glance  at  the  brown 
envelope  was  a  little  keen,  and  was  followed 
by  a  look  at  the  youth  himself,  as  with  clumsy 
fingers  he  took  it,  he  made  no  other  comment, 
and  John,  thankful  that  Mrs.  Patten  had  a  few 
moments  before  complained  of  a  whistling  draft 
down  the  stairway,  murmured  something  about 
his  window's  being  open,  and  withdrew,  mail 
in  hand,  ostensibly  to  shut  it. 

Once  within  the  walls  of  his  own  room  he 
drew  a  long  breath  that  was  almost  a  sigh, 
and  opened  the  envelope  with  hands  that  trem 
bled.  He  knew  the  handwriting  in  which  it 

o 

was  addressed,  and  which  there  had  been  no 
attempt  to  disguise,  and  he  knew  by  sight 
the  folded  missive  that  Dorothy  had  held  so 
tightly  twenty-four  hours  before. 

There  it  was,  in  all  its  pristine  daintiness, 
not  a  mark  upon  the  glittering  frost-work  of  its 
delicate  decoration.  And  the  verses  that  she 
had  said  fitted  him.  He  bent  his  head  to  read 
them,  and  there  is  no  honor  that  valor  or  noble 
ness  can  earn,  or  fellowman  bestow,  signifi 
cant  enough  to  make  him  so  glad  and  proud  as 
did  that  quaint  verse  from  an  old  poet. 


IN  SAINT  VALENTINE'S  TONGUE.  161 

He  sat  quite  still  a  long  time  after  he  had 
read  it. 

"Maybe  it  does,  some  of  it,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  at  length. 

"It  shall,  anyway,  sometime,  the  whole 
of  it." 

Never  was  knightly  vow  made  with  fuller 
and  more  joyful  consecration  than  this  unwit 
nessed  one.  But  of  the  endeavors  that  went 
to  its  fulfilment,  homely,  pathetic,  persistent, 
self-forgetful,  few  knew,  though  all  within  the 
radius  of  his  efforts  were  enriched,  gladdened, 
or  bettered  thereby. 

Oldbergians  knew  that  Squire  Patten  hired 
him  that  spring  and  summer,  but  that  he  "kept 
himself  awful  close  of  an  evenin',  except  it  was 
conference  or  lecture,  or  something  special  at 
the  town  hall ;"  that  he  did  the  work  of  two 
with  his  young  strength  and  tireless  zeal. 
They  knew  he  entered  college  in  the  fall,  with 
out  conditions,  and  the  Squire's  nephew  said 
the  Squire  had  lent  him,  or  offered  to  lend  him, 
money  enough  to  go  through  with.  They 
knew  he  worked  summers  and  taught  winters, 
twice  at  Oldberg,  where  his  success,  measured 
by  the  solid  acquirements  of  his  pupils,  and 
the  inspiration  and  direction  they  somehow  had 
from  him,  was  something  wonderful. 


162        UNDER  FRIEXDLY  EAVES. 

They  knew  that  when  Arthur  Ellis  was  ex 
pelled  in  disgrace  John  was  the  only  one  who 
stood  by  him  or  seemed  to  know  how  to  win 
his  confidence,  prevailing  on  the  Squire  him 
self  to  employ  him  as  accountant  in  the  office 
at  his  own  mill,  and  that  it  was  doubtless 
John's  intervention — he  had  been  three  years 
in  college  then — that  saved  two  others  of  the 
Oldberg  boys  from  sharing  Ellis's  disgrace. 
They  knew  he  graduated  with  honor,  took  a 
year  at  the  Polytechnic,  obtained  at  once  a 
position  in  some  Western  city,  and,  after  the 
briefest  visit  to  his  native  town,  during  which 
he  took  a  decrepit  great-aunt  from  the  poor- 
house,  where  she  had  been  placed  by  some  dis 
tant  cousins  whose  unpaid  servant  she  had  been 
through  most  of  her  active  years,  and  placed 
her  in  the  family  of  widow  Carleton,  who  would 
care  for  her  faithfully,  and  who  was  glad  to 
have  the  weekly  addition  to  her  income  which 
John  pledged  himself  to  make  in  payment. 

There  was,  indeed,  one  person,  yes,  there 
were  two  in  the  village  who  could  have  told 
much  more  than  this.  One  was  Squire  Patten, 
whose  classmate,  Judge  Otis,  was  one  of  the 
trustees  of  the  college  where  John  graduated, 
and  a  resident  of  the  college-town,  who  had 
two  cousins  and  more  than  one  old  friend 


IN  SAINT  VALENTINE'S  TONGUE.  163 

among  the  faculty,  and  was,  though  John 
never  found  it  out,  an  uncle  of  the  wife  of  the 
young  president  of  the  Polytechnic,  and  who, 
he  was  aware,  though  he  seldom  thought  of  it, 
had  a  somewhat  abnormal  faculty  of  eliciting 
information,  which  the  informant  was  quite 
unaware  of  giving.  But  the  Squire  did  not 
share  his  knowledge  with  his  neighbors  to  any 
extent.  They  knew  he  had  a  good  opinion  of 
the  young  man,  and  declared  he  was  "bound 
to  win  if  only  he  didn't  try  to  do  too  much  for 
the  other  fellow,"  adding,  though,  with  an 
inscrutable  twinkle,  that  "John's  judgment  was 
pretty  good  for  a  young  man,  and  he  had  made 
some  splendid  investments  already,"  which 
remark  set  his  neighbors  to  wondering  if  John 
could  have  accumulated  anything  so  quickly,  or 
if  possibly  the  Squire  had  let  him  look  after 
any  of  his  stocks  or  bonds.  They  did  not 
think  of  any  other  realm  where  money  or 
strength  or  love  might  be  funded.  "Treasure 
in  heaven,"  was  a  familiar  phrase,  indeed,  but 
heaven  as  an  actual  place  of  deposit  neither 
sermon,  text  nor  life  itself  had  ever  suggested 
to  them. 

The  other  person  to  whom  had  come,  more 
by  intuition  than  by  discovery,  some  real,  con 
tinuous  knowledge  of  John  Bradley's  life  and 


164  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

what  he  was  making  out  of  it,  and  doing  with 
it,  was  Dorothy  Carver.  But  she  was  more 
reticent  than  the  Squire.  He  wondered, 
indeed,  whether  she  really  knew  more  than  he 
did,  of  what  John  was  doing,  or  so  much, 
sometimes  ;  and  took  pains  to  spend  an  evening 
occasionally  at  the  Carvers',  taking  his  wife 
and  her  knitting- work  with  him,  that  Mrs. 
Carver  and  she  might  chat  together,  and  leave 
Dorothy  free  to  listen,  while  he  talked  to  her 
father,  taking  care  to  speak,  meanwhile,  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  of  what  was  happening 
to  Oldberg's  sons  and  daughters  at  a  distance, 
and  telling  most  of  the  young  men,  and, 
whether  he  named  him  or  not,  of  John. 

And  he  was  sure  that  whether  the  name  was 
spoken  or  not,  one  hearer  knew  which  story 
was  of  his  quondam  choreboy,  which  deed  of 
modest  heroism  her  old  schoolmate  had  done, 
and  which  enconium,  whether  from  his  lips  or 
only  repeated  by  him,  was  bestowed  on  the 
man  she  and  St.  Valentine,  all  unconsciously, 
had  knighted. 

Dear,  benignant,  wise  St.  Valentine  !  Does 
he  make  record  of  those  who  help  keep  his 
memory  green,  to  return  their  offerings  with 
interest? 

Every  year  on  the  14th  of  February,  a 
package  came  to  Dorothy,  always  addressed 


IN  SAINT  VALENTINE'S  TONGUE.  165 

in  the  same  hand,  changing  a  little,  but  still 
firm,  familiar  and  dear.  Once  it  had  been  a 
box  of  exquisite  violets ;  once  royal-hearted 
pansies.  Once  it  was  a  volume  of  noble  poems, 
new  then,  iarniliar  now.  Once  the  latest  thought 
of  a  gracious  thinker,  and  once  a  lovely  bit  of 
landscape,  that  reminded  both  giver  and  recip 
ient  of  the  Oldberg  woods. 

So  each  year  brought  a  tenderer  thought,  a 
more  insistent  suggestion.  All  that  inanimate 
or  growing  things  could  tell,  was  told.  Yet 
how  little  way  their  speech  went  after  all ! 

Oldberg  had  by  this  time  settled  John  Brad- 
ley's  destiny  to  its  own  satisfaction.  He  was 
steadily  advancing  in  his  profession,  wasliegin- 
ning  to  be  called  indeed  "eminent"  in  it.  His 
influence  was  felt  too,  along  other  lines.  This 
Squire  Patten  corroborated. 

Also  he  was  to  be  married  very  soon  to  the 
daughter  of  one  of  his  old  teachers,  now  resi 
dent  in  the  city  where  John  was  as  one  of  the 
faculty  of  a  new  university.  This  the  Squire 
corrected,  not  vehemently,  but  with  sufficient 
decision,  telling  enough  of  John's  habits,  man 
ner  of  life  and  plans,  in  Dorothy's  hearing  to 
assure  her  of  its  falsity.  But  the  rumor  lived, 
Protean-like,  in  Oldberg  gossip  still.  Not  even 
the  Squire's  denial  could  arrest  it,  nor  did  he 


166  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

seem  to  think  it  worth  pursuing,  as  likely 
to  be  always  foundationless. 

The  great  aunt  had  died,  and  John  had 
neither  kith  nor  kin  in  Oldberg.  He  had  not 
come  for  the  summer  visit  the  Squire  and  his 
wife  hoped  for,  nor  had  he  accepted  their 
almost  beseeching  invitation  to  Thanksgiving. 
And  so  the  old  year  grew  late  and  faded  away 
out  of  life,  nay,  left  its  life  beyond  it,  out  of 
which  the  new  year  would  make  what  God 
willed. 

In  a  box  of  peerless  roses  her  friend  had 
sent — for  it  was  so  she  oftenest  thought  of  him 
— had  been  a  cutting  which  Dorothy  had  rooted 
and  cared  for  till  it  became  a  thrifty  rose  tree. 
It  lifted  a  creamy,  half  opened  bud  to  her  as 
she  entered  the  sitting  room  one  morning,  and 
soothed  her  with  its  fine  fragrance  as  she  bent 
over  it. 

"I  suppose  I  have  my  friend  still,"  she  said 
to  herself,  while  a  tear  glistened  on  a  green- 
veined  leaf.  "And  after  all,  'life  holdeth  no 
joy  like  a  friend.'  ' 

Her  gladness  warmed  with  the  sunlight.  It 
did  not  seem  strange  that  no  token  appeared 
though  the  day  grew  late. 

And  when,  at  nightfall,  after  the  last  West 
ern  train  had  rumbled  in,  someone  came  up 


IN  SAINT  VALENTINE'S  TONGUE.  167 

the  path  and  in  at  the  door,  it  hardly  surprised 
her,  nor  was  the  voice  strange  to  her. 

"I  have  told  all  I  could,"  it  said.    "You  will 
have  to  say  the  rest — the  answer  to  it." 


A  FLOWER  MISSION. 


The  thought  of  it  came  while  the  March 
winds  were  sweeping  through  the  Crofton 
hills.  On  Brier  Hill  was  the  little  brown  cot 
tage  where  the  flower  missionary  lived.  So 
small  and  so  high  was  it,  and  in  summer  so 
hung  with  vines,  that  when  the  leaves  were 
grown  you  did  not  descry  it  till  you  were  close 
upon  it.  And  when  the  trees  were  bare,  and 
the  vines  faded,  the  wee  brown  thing  had  the 
semblance  of  a  gigantic  bird's-nest.  But  it 
was  not  far,  after  all,  from  the  little  town ;  for 
Brier  Hill  rose  abruptly  from  the  village  street. 
Crofton  was  far  among  the  hills  of  a  hilly  New 
England  region.  Round  about  it  were  encirc 
ling  hills,  each  a  little  higher  than  the  one 
below  it,  till  the  outer  circle  pierced  with  its 
jagged  cliffs  the  stainless  azure,  or  seemed  all 
the  grander  for  the  cloud  and  mist  that  half- 
veiled  their  majesty. 


A    FLO  WEE   MISSION.  169 

Delightful  summers  they  had  in  Crofton, 
but  all  too  short,  set  between  the  long,  bleak, 
ever-threatening  winters.  The  season  had 
been,  this  year  of  which  I  write,  unusually 
severe  even  for  Crofton.  Sick  people  suffered 
and  died,  and  well  ones  fell  ill,  and  were  long 
in  recovering.  'ihe  Randalls,  in  the  little, 
brown,  Brier  Hill  farm-house,  had  had  their 
turn.  Ruth,  the  last  to  succumb,  was  slowest 
to  recover.  Indeed,  they  knew  that  health, 
if  it  came  at  all  to  her  who  had  been  last  year 
so  full  of  abounding  vitality,  could  come  only 
after  months  or  years.  Everyone's  sunshine 
was  dimmed  with  the  knowledge.  And  she 
herself  bemoaned  the  inaction  that  must  fol 
low,  more  than  the  suffering  that  went  before. 
But  one  cheerless  day,  while  they  were  yet 
snow-bound,  her  inspiration  came. 

The  table  was  strewn  with  seedsmen's  cata 
logues,  and  with  old  and  new  Rurals  and 
Agriculturists,  with  the  aid  of  which  Father 
Randall  was  making  up  his  seed  order  for  the 
spring  planting.  Ruthie  looked  on  listlessly, 
roused  into  interest  only  by  the  words  of  her 
mother,  absorbed  in  papers  of  a  different  sort  : 

"Here  is  work  for  you,  Ruthie  !  1  wonder 
we  haven't  thought  about  it  before.  It's  the 
Flower  Mission.  There's  a  piece  about  it  here, 


170  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

and  it  reminded  me  of  what  your  Cousin  May 
told  us  last  summer.  Don't  you  know  how 
sorry  we  were  we  hadn't  anything  to  send,  so 
to  have  a  hand  in  the  good  work  ?  You  know 
she  said  they  could  make  good  use  of  many 
more  than  they  had.  Now  you  just  try  your 
hand  at  it ;  'twill  take  you  out  doors  and  give 
you  something  to  think  about,  and  maybe  do 
somebody  else  a  good  turn  or  two,  as  well." 

"What's  that,  mother?"  said  the  farmer, 
looking  up. 

"Oh  !  the  Flower  Mission,  father,  don't  you 
know  ?  They  get  together  all  the  flowers  they 
can,  and  carry  them  to  poor  people,  and  sick 
folks,  and  'shut-ins,'  and  the  poor  little  city 
children. 

"We  didn't  begin  in  season  last  year,  but 
this  spring  we  can  and  will." 

r  'Twill  be  the  best  medicine  for  you,  childie," 
said  the  father,  sighing  as  his  eyes  rested  on 
the  fragile  form,  the  pale  face,  and  the  weak, 
thin  hands,  "and  I'll  help  you." 

"I'll  have  nice,  old-fashioned  flowers  for 
part,"  she  went  on,  eagerly,  "pinks,  and  sweet 
william,  and  phlox,  and  marigolds,  and  such. 
Old  people  like  them,  and  men  and  women 
knew  and  loved  them  as  children,  so  they  seem 
like  old  friends.  And  I'll  send  some  wild  flow- 


A    FLOWER   MISSION.  171 

ers,  too,  if  I  can  afford  freight  on  so  many. 
My  pansies  will  do  well  this  year,  I  guess; 
and  the  bulbs  I  planted  last  year  will  be  in 
bloom.  Arid  I  must  make  out  a  list  of  seeds 
and  things  for  new  ones  too." 

So  the  planning  of  this  mission  flower  gar 
den  beguiled  many  weary  hours.  It  was  pleas 
ant  to  send  away  an  order,  and  receive  the 
dozen  or  more  little  brown  and  blue  packets, 
and  pleasanter  still  to  sow  some  in  window- 
boxes,  and  watch  their  germination  and  growth. 
And  when  April  slowly  passed,  and  May  came 
in,  what  joy  to  see  the  yellow  "daffis"  nodding 
in  the  wind,  and  the  delicate  wind-flowers  bud 
ding  in  the  breeze,  and  the  crimson-vestured 
polyanthus  standing  prim  and  straight  in  the 
corner,  and  the  pansies  lifting  their  sweet  faces 
in  their  tiny  bed ;  and  best  of  all,  to  cut  and 
send  away  one  small  basket  ere  June  had  come  ! 
And  following  them,  the  lilacs  and  syringas, 
and  tulips  and  jonquils  and  lilies-of-the-valley, 
all  coming  right  along,  as  if  eager  to  greet  her, 
and  help  on  her  kindly  plans. 

This  was  while  she  could  do  no  more  than 
cut  and  arrange  them ;  but  as  the  days  grew 
brighter,  and  strength  began  to  return,  she 
spent  a  part  of  every  pleasant  day  among  them, 
receiving  infinite  soothing  and  satisfaction, 


172  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

drinking  in  deep  draughts  of  cheer  and  courage 
as  she  toiled  among  them.  And  -like  Shakes 
peare's  "little  candle,"  this  "good  deed,"  shin 
ing,  sent  its  beams  afar.  Some  unknown  friend 
in  the  city  hearing  of  her  circumstances  and 
efforts,  sent  a  kind  letter  and  generous  check 
to  further  her  schemes.  The  village  paper 
found  out  what  she  was  doing,  and  bethought 
itself  to  help  in  the  work.  They  found 
out  that,  remote  as  they  were,  with  modest  in 
comes,  and,  of  necessity,  busy  people,  all, 
there  yet  were  many  things  they  could  do  to 
help  and  cheer  their  distant  brethren  and  sisters 
toiling  and  suffering  in  circumstances  more 
adverse.  It  paved  the  way  for  more  substan 
tial  charities  ;  the  Fresh  Air  cause,  the  hospital 
charities,  and  others  began  to  have  supporters 
there  among  the  hills  ;  and  the  snv^pathies  of 
Crofton  people  grew  and  strengthened  as  the 
summer  waxed  and  waned. 

The  Minister  (they  spell  it  with  a  capital  in 
Crofton)  came  one  day  to  Brier  Hill,  finding 
Ruth  in  her  garden. 

"We  didn't  know  what  benevolent  plans  were 
developing  in  your  brain  when  we  were  miss 
ing  and  pitying  you  last  winter,"  he  said,  as  he 
sat  down  in  the  shade.  "Crofton  begins  to  be 
proud  of  our  philanthropist." 


A    FLOWER   MISSION.  173 

"Oh !  Mr.  Noble,  don't  laugh  at  me  !  I'm 
ashamed  when  people  speak  so  !  But  it's  all  I 
can  do  just  now,  you  know." 

"My  child,  I  am  not  laughing  at  you.  You 
are  doing  real,  gracious,  blessed  work,  and  I 
rejoice  in  it.  It  reaches  farther  than  you 
dream  of.  And  I  know  it  is  good  for  you,  and 
helps  you  in  many  ways,  does  it  not?" 

"Oh,  so  much !" 

"When  your  mother  asked  me  last  Sabbath 
for  a  copy  of  the  sermon  for  you, — which  I 
have  brought  to-day, — I  told  her  you  had 
sermons  of  your  own  every  day,  better  than 
any  of  us  can  preach." 

"The  Voiceless  lips'  do  say  a  good  many 
things  that  I  never  seemed  to  hear  before." 

"We  are  not  always  ready  to  hear,"  said  the 
Minister,  musingly. 

"I  wish,"  said  Ruthie,  "I  could  be  sure  that 
they  say  as  much  to  those  they  are  sent  to. 
It  would  be  better  than  the  blossoms." 

"Why  don't  you  send  the  thoughts  with 
them,  at  least  sometimes?" 

"Oh  !  it  would  be  presumptuous,  wouldn't  it?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Then  perhaps  I  could,  occasionally,  I'll 
think  about  it.  It's  queer,  isn't  it !  Every 
now  and  then  they  make  me  think  of  some 


174  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

Bible  verse  that  perhaps  I  never  thought  much 
about  before,  and  they  make  it  all  new  and 
plain  and  very  real  to  me.  I  should  like  to 
send  those  to  some  one  that  needs  them." 

"I  would  try  it,  if  I  were  you,"  said  the 
Minister,  rising  to  join  Mr.  Randall  in  the 
strawberry  bed,  stopping  to  speak  to  the  house 
mother  as  he  went. 

And  so  Ruthie  had  another  "idea,"  one  she 
was  not  long  in  carrying  out.  After  this,  with 
every  tiny  basket,  or  carefully  tied  cluster  of 
flowers,  she  laid  a  dainty  card,  bearing,  some 
times  with  a  blossoming  spray  painted  upon  it, 
sometimes  in  graceful  Old  English  lettering, 
sometimes  in  plainest  script,  a  Scripture  text, 
one  that  had  unfolded  its  meaning  as  she  toiled 
over  her  flowers,  or  been  suggested  by  some 
thing  around  them.  Rarely,  too,  she  put  in 
another  verse,  full  of  significance  or  promise. 

Those  whose  work  it  was  to  distribute  them 
exercised  rare  tact  in  their  work.  Never 
preacher  spoke  to  more  attentive  hearers,  nor 
with  finer  discernment  and  fitness.  To  a  poor 
old  woman,  looking  back  on  disappointments 
and  blighted  hopes,  feeling  worn  and  broken, 
came  a  handful  of  dewy  lilies  with  the  promise, 
"I  will  be  as  the  dew  unto  Israel."  And  into 
her  sad  soul  stole  a  new,  restful  sense  of  God's 


A    FLOWER    MISSION.  175 

own  care  and  his  fullness  of  tenderness,  that 
effaced  some  overlaying  dust  of  anxieties,  and 
gave  new  life  and  freshness  to  the  Christianity 
that  was  really  hers.  To  a  young  girl,  shut  in 
a  narrow  room,  whose  only  cheering  outlook 
was  one  slender  strip  of  sky,  to  whom  came 
few  ministers  of  consolation, — so  few,  indeed, 
that  she  hardly  pined  or  looked  for  any, — was 
sent,  with  cool,  delicious  fruits  and  an  illus 
trated  book,  a  great  cluster  of  rich  verbenas 
with  fresh,  green  leaves.  And  while  she  drank 
in  beauty  and  perfume,  and  wondered  at  the 
unlooked-for  joy  that  had  come  to  her  there 
fell  out  a  card,  declaring,  ''God  is  able  to  give 
thee  much  more  than  this." 

A  young  man  lay  wasting  with  consumption 
in  the  wards  of  a  great  hospital,  a  believer, 
yet  not  freed  from  all  the  fear  and  dread  of 
death.  To  his  bedside  was  brought  a  great 
cluster  of  Ruthie's  mission  flowers,  sprung 
from  the  seeds  her  hands  had  planted.  And 
with  these  she  had  laid  a  card,  bearing  the 
thought  they  had  illustrated  for  her. 

"See"  said  the  nurse,  as  she  laid  them  in  his 
hands,  "flowers  for  you.  And  there's  a  card 
with  some  writing." 

For  some  minutes  the  sick  man  lay  caressing 
the  blossoms.  Many  of  them  were  like  old 


176  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

friends.  He  had  loved  them  long  ago.  By 
and  by,  as  he  turned,  the  card  fell  out  with 
the  text  uppermost.  Like  the  voice  of  an 
angel,  like  an  echo  of  the  divine  comforting, 
seemed  the  words,  "Not  unclothed,  but  clothed 
upon." 

In  the  next  ward  lay  an  older  man,  also 
sick  with  incurable  disease,  and  slowly  failing. 
With  his  boquet  was  the  passage,  "The  flower 
fadeth,  but  the  word  of  our  God  shall  stand 
forever."  To  how  many  despondent  hearts 
they  brought  home  the  truth  of  God's  love  and 
care,  I  know  not.  Only  He  keeps  such 
records.  But  there  must  be  many  such.  Now 
and  then  some  cheering  report  of  the  good 
they  did  came  back  to  the  giver  of  the  blos 
soms, — these  I  have  mentioned  and  one  other, 
a  cripple,  misshapen  and  mained,  and  not  yet 
led  to  serene  acceptance  of  his  life-burden  by 
seeing  God  in  it.  With  the  blossoms,  of  many 
sorts  and  rare  beauty,  that  were  given  him, 
were  the  words,  "God  giveth  it  a  body  as  it 
hath  pleased  him."  "I  could  believe  it  of 
them,"  he  said,  "an'  as  I  sat  a  thinkin',  it  came 
to  me  that  it  is  true  for  me  too.  And  I  can't 
begin  to  tell  you  how  different  it  makes  things. 
Tell  them  as  sent  'em,  I  thank  them  heartily, 
an'  always  shall." 


A    FLOWER   MISSION.  177 

"And  that,"  said  Ktithie,  "more  than  paid 
for  all  the  trouble  and  caie  I'd  taken,  and 
would,  if  it  had  been  a  dozen  times  as  much  to 
do.  Only"  she  added  to  herself,  "it  wasn't  so 
much  the  flowers,  as  'twas  the  'wonderful 
words  of  life'  that  went  with  them.  I  am  so 
glad  I  did  it !" 


A  BELATED  THANKSGIVING. 


The  November  day,  which  had  opened  like 
June  or  September,  serene  and  sunny,  and 
sweet  with  lingering  harvest  scents,  had  become 
swiftly  as  dim  and  dreary  as  the  grim  month 
it  belonged  to  had  right  to  be.  It  was  hardly 
later  than  mid-afternoon,  by  the  village  clocks 
— though  to  country-folk  at  this  season,  that  is 
already  "almost  night" — yet  the  houses  and 
hills  in  the  distance  began  to  look  vague  and 
indistinct,  and  the  shadows  were  dark  and 
heavy  all  around,  as  if  it  wore  really  twilight. 

"How  fallish  it  seems  ?"  said  Mrs.  Ellis.  "I'm 
real  glad  I  wore  my  woolen  long-shawl  instead 
of  my  Paisley,  as  I  was  a'most  minded  to. 
Twas  so  warm  and  pleasant  when  we  started  !" 

"Yes,  I  don't  know  when  we've  had  a  pret 
tier  mornin',"  rejoined  Miss  Cleaves. 

"Seems'  if  'twas  going  to  snow  right  away," 
said  Mrs.  Gridley.  The  fourth  occupant  of 
the  double-seated  farm-wagon,  jogging  and 


A    BELATED    THANKSGIVING.  179 

jerking  along,  in  accordance  with  the  unrhyth- 
mic  progress  of  a  clumsy,  not-to-be-hurried 
gray  horse,  had  no  rejoinder  ready  to  complete 
this  measure  of  the  conversational  quartet 
which  had  gone  on  since  they  left  the  Corner. 
She  only  looked,  in  a  silence  that  seemed  to 
cover  an  anxiety,  at  the  cold-looking  fields, 
bare  now  even  of  the  stubble,  at  the  gray  sky, 
and  at  the  little  puddles  over  which  the  horse 
stepped  gingerly,  and  which  were  already 
glossing  over  with  a  thin,  brittle  coat  of 
fragile  ice,  for  the  wind  had  grown  very  chilly. 

"Seems  real  raw,  don't  it?"  questioned  Mrs. 
Ellis.  "Aint  you  cold,  Mis'  King?  Here, 
pull  this  buffalo  robe  over. to  your  side. 
There's  plenty  of  it,  only  we've  had  inore'n 
our  share.  It's  'most  Thanksgiving,  aint  it? 
Comes  early  this  year.  I've  just  got  my  lard 
tried  out,  and  my  head-cheese  made.  Henry, 
he  smoked  the  hams,  good  big  cuts  of  'em, 
too.  I  told  him  I  couldn't  make  sausage  this 
year,  anyhow.  Why,  I  aint  got  my  mince 
meat  done  yet.  I  'most  generally  have  it  out 
of  the  way  a  good  fortnight  before  Thanksgiv 
ing.  And  I  expect  his  folks  will  be  there, 
too." 

"Well,  I've  got  to  make  a  Thanksgiving  this 
year,  whether  I  want  to  or  not,"  said  Mrs. 


180  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES.. 

Gridley.  "Sister  Susan,  she  wrote  that  she 
was  coming  from  Pennsylvania  along  the  last 
o'  the  fall.  She  should  get  here  by  Thanks 
giving,  anyway.  You  know  she  aint  eat  a 
Thanksgiving  dinner  at  the  old  home  place  in 
years  and  years  !  An'  Jabez,  her  husband, 
you  know,  and  probably  one  of  my  nieces, 
and  maybe  the  two  of  'em,  will  come  with  her. 
Martha  Thome's  promised  to  help  me  some. 
Of  course  the  boys  will  be  at  home,  and  Cora 
and  her  family.  Her  husband's  just  got  home 
from  Nebraska.  They're  terrible  pleased  !" 

"Well,  you  have  got  a  stent,"  said  Miss 
Hannah  Cleaves,  "to  do  for  so  many  !  I  don't 
hardly  see  how  you  will  manage." 

"There's  a  good  deal  in  plannin',"  remarked 
Mrs.  Gridley.  "I  always  do  mean  to  be  a 
little  beforehand  with  my  work,  especially 
when  there's  company  to  do  fer,  or  anything 
extry.  I've  got  my  mince  all  chopped,  an' 
my  sausage  made,  an'  five  loaves  of  pound 
cake  baked,  besides  my  cleaning  done  up 
thorough,"  she  added  complacently,  tucking 
the  "buffalo"  corner  more  closely  around  her. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  shall  jest  shet  up  my 
house  and  go  up  to  Alameda's  Thanksgiving 
week,"  said  Miss  Cleaves.  "She  wants  me  to, 
an'  I  think  likely  'twill  be  some  help  to  her. 


A   BELATED   THANKSGIVING.  181 

She  aint  real  strong  and  the  children  can't 
help  much.  They  are  all  in  school  and  Fanny's 
only  in  her  fourteenth  year." 

"My  Mary's  only  a  year  older  than  that," 
said  the  woman  who  had  been  silent  for  a  time, 
"and  she's  a  good  deal  of  help  now.  Your 
sister'll  find  her  daughter  will  be  by  that  time. 
I  declare,  I  shouldn't  know  how  to  keep  house 
without  her." 

"Your  bein'  alone  makes  a  difference,  I 
s'pose,"  put  in  Mrs.  Gridley,  not  heeding  the 
flush  that  spread,  as  she  spoke,  over  Avis 
King's  usually  pale  face. 

But  Mrs.  Ellis  saw  it,  and  hurried  to  salve 
the  wound  by  the  first  question  that  came  to 
mind.  Perhaps  she  had  even  hoped  to  turn 
the  weapon,  in  that  clumsy  fashion  we  all  have 
of  trying  to  arrest  a  sentence  whose  edge  has 
already  gone  to  the  quick  with  another  glanc 
ing  point  of  words.  Perhaps  the  second, 
coming  where  the  hurt  has  been  made  already, 
pains  more  than  the  first.  It  did  in  this  case, 
though  she  did  not  see  it  till  it  was  too  late. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  make  Thanksgiving  this 
year,  Mis'  King?" 

"Why,  I  suppose  I  shall  do  something  for 
the  children,  you  know.  They  always  count 
on  it  so  much,"  Mrs.  King  stammered,  flush 
ing  more  deeply. 


182  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

And  Hannah  Cleaves  hastened  to  say  : 
"Of  course  they  do,  an'  grown  folks,  too! 
I  remember  one  year,  I  wasn't  very  well,  an' 
I  thought  I  wouldn't  do  anything,  nor  go  any 
wheres,  either,  though  Alameda  and  Ellen, 
they  both  wanted  me  to.     But  my   neuralgia 
was  bad,  an'  I  hadn't  any  appetite,  either,  for 
Thanksgiving,  nor  any  other  dinner.     So    I 
told  'em  I  couldn't  come,  an'  I  sold  my  chick 
ens,  all  of  'em  alive,  and  got  Job  Rollins  to 
put  in  my  squashes  an'   apples,    an'   things. 
An'  I  thought  what  a  nice  time  I'd  have  to  get 
rested,  all  by  myself,  an'  so  quiet  there.     I 
could  set  'round  all  day.     Well,    I    did    set 
'round,  and  it  was  real   quiet,   only  'twas  the 
lonesomest  kind  of  quiet,  you  ever  saw.      I 
fairly   got   the    blues,  an'  that's  something  I 
don't  often  have  !     An'  I  said  to  myself,  'Han 
nah  Cleaves,  it  serves  you  right,  grumpin'  off 
by  yourself  the  best  day  o'  the  year  but  one  ! 
Stands  to  reason  that  thankfulness,  the  genu 
ine  sort,  comes  better  where  there's  things  go 
ing  on,  and  folks  to  do  for,  if  'taint  but  little 
— and  to  do  fer  you.     The  promise  to  two  or 
three  is  good  for  other  times  besides  Sundays 
and  prayer-meetings.     An'  there's  more'n  one 
or  two  you  could  have  invited  in,  if  you  didn't 
have  all  kinds  an'  a  big  dinner.    T would  have 


A    BELATED    THANKSGIVING.  183 

cheered  'em  some,  maybe.  Another  time 
you'll  do  different.'  Oh,  I  just  give  it  to  my 
self.  An'  the  more,  because  I  had  made  half- 
a-dozen  pies  and  sent  'em  to  one  and  another 
that  was  old  and  feeble,  or  hadn't  much  to  do 
with.  It  made  me  think — my  actions  did,  of 
something  I  read  once  in  a  piece  of  poetry ;  it 
was  about  it's  not  being  what  we  give  to  folks, 
but  wrhat  we  share  with  'em,  that  does  'em 
good.  And  the  gift,  without  us,  is  bare 
enough.  Doesn't  sound  very  smooth,  the  way 
I  tell  it,  but  'twas  real  poetry  there." 

"Mary's  got  the  whole  of  that  poem,  you're 
thinking  of,  in  a  book  her  cousin  Nora  sent 
her;  and  it  is  beautiful,"  said  Mrs.  King. 
"You  can  take  it  sometime,  if  you  want  to," 
she  added  timidly.  "I  think  you'd  like  to  read 
the  whole  of  it." 

She  had  recovered  her  self-possession  by 
this  time,  and  except  that  her  voice  was  not 
quite  clear,  and  her  eyes  brighter  as  if  tears 
had  been  held  back  stoutly,  she  did  not  betray 
the  fact  that  a  very  sensitive  spot  had  been 
ruthlessly  and  carelessly  touched.  And  her 
companions  were  as  willing  as  she  to  pass  over 
the  inadvertence. 

"There  comes  Zekle  Nicholas  with  his  ever 
lasting  peddle-cart,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ellis  sud- 


184  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

denly,  as  a  forlorn  looking  team  came  in  sight. 
"There,  I  can't  help  it,"  she  added,  slapping 
the  horse  with  the  reins,  in  a  vain  endeavor  to 
hurry  him.  "Zekle  is  so  slow  an'  putterin', 
an'  so  dreadful  inquisitive  !  I  get  all  out  of 
patience  with  him.  Now  he'll  stop  an'  quiz 
us  half  an  hour,  try  in'  to  find  out  where  we've 
been.  I  guess  the  best  way's  to  tell  him  now." 
So  she  accosted  him  at  once  : 

"Chilly  afternoon,  ain't  it,  Mr.  Nicholas? 
We've  been  over  to  the  Forks  to  a  Missionary 
circle,  and  to  do  some  shoppin',  too,  and  we're 
kind  of  late  gettin'  home.  Folks  all  well,  I 
s'pose?  Ours  is."  By  this  time  she  had  suc 
ceeded  in  persuading  her  horse  to  take  three 
steps  where  he  had  taken  only  two  before,  and 
had  urged  him  past  the  expectant  Zekle.  "2 
wa'n't  goin'  to  have  you  all  set  there  in  the 
road  a-shaking  while  he  asked  his  forty-nine 
questions,"  she  said  triumphantly.  "I  tell  you 
I've  learnt  to  head  him  off  when  I  can." 

"They  say  his  wife  has  got  him  into  that 
way  of  doing,"  Miss  Hannah  said,  apologeti 
cally.  "Folks  that  know  say  she  always  asks 
him  every  time  he  comes  home,  who  he's  met, 
an'  where  they  was  goin',  and  what  the  folks 
where  he'd  called  was  doing,  an'  if  the  houses 
looked  neat  every  time,  and  even  what  they 


A    BELATED    THANKSGIVING.  185 

had  for  dinner  or  supper,  if  the  table  was  set, 
or  what  the  women-folks  was  cookin',  if  'twas 
forenoon  or  a  bakin'  day.  I  s'pose  she  gets 
lonesome,  and  I  have  heard  wa'n't  real  bright." 

"I've  heard  she  was  a  real  tattler,  an'  I  guess 
it's  so,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Gridley  with  energy. 
"An'  I've  known  of  a  good  many  stories  started 
from  that  wa'n't  no  ways  so.  Well,  here  I  am 
at  home  again,  an'  ever  an'  ever  so  much 
obliged  to  you.  Mis'  Ellis,"  she  added,  as  the 
driver  drew  rein  before  a  white  farmhouse. 
"I'll  have  our  horse  some  day  when  he  ain't 
quite  so  busy,  to  go  somewhere.  One  good 
turn  deserves  another,  you  know  !  Good-night, 
an'  good-night  again,  Hannah ;  an'  Mis'  King, 
I'm  comin'  up  to  see  you,  an'  bring  my  work, 
just  as  soon  as  Thanksgiving's  well  over.  I 
know  you're  lonesome  !" 

Mrs.  Ellis  had  already  driven  on,  but  her 
voice,  shrill  and  penetrant,  carried  her  words 
to  them  distinctly.  No  one  seemed  to  have 
anything  to  say,  and  they  resumed  the  long 
hill  in  silence.  At  its  top,  and  a  little  way  from 
the  road,  stood  a  yello\v  house,  at  one  of 
whose  windows  a  light  shone  feebly. 

"I'd  rather  get  out  here.  I've  had  a  nice 
ride,  and  a  pleasant  afternoon,  and  I  thank 
you.  Come  over  and  see  me,  won't  you,  and 
you,  too,  Hannah." 


186  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

"Just  as  soon  as  my  company's  come  an' 
gone,  an'  I  get  righted  round  a  little,"  said 
Mrs.  Ellis,  briskly.  "I  calculate  on  being 
pretty  busy  for  two  or  three  weeks,  now. 
Can't  you  run  in  and  see  us  while  the  folks 
are  here  ?  They'll  want  to  see  you." 

"If  I  can,  I  will.  Bring  them  over,"  said 
Mrs.  King,  raising  her  voice  slightly,  for  the 
horse,  impatient  for  his  supper,  was  moving 
on.  As  she  went  up  the  little  lane  she  could 
hear  them  talking  still — for  the  wind  had 
veered  and  bore  their  voices  to  her — Mrs. 
Ellis's  quick,  shrill  tones  contrasting  oddly 
with  the  gentler,  softer  speech  of  her  com 
panion. 

It  was  twilight  now,  and  very  shadowy 
under  t}ie  eaves  which  sheltered  the  side  door. 
She  paused  an  instant,  to  look  in.  Mary  had 
lighted  a  lamp  in  the  kitchen  and  the  little 
ones  were  gathered  there. 

Bennie,  the  studious,  was  perched  at  the 
table  with  a  book  before  him.  His  blue  eyes 
dilated  as  he  turned  eagerly  the  pages.  Evi 
dently  it  was  some  book  new  to  him  by  his 
absorption,  though  one  reading  by  no  means 
exhausted  the  resources  of  any  volume  for 
him,  and  all  the  books  and  periodicals  the 
house  held  were  laid  under  tribute  to  his 


A    BELATED   THANKSGIVING.  187 

pleasure.  Sober  and  earnest  for  his  ten  years, 
thoughtful,  and  with  a  mind  seemingly  athirst 
for  truth,  his  mother  oftened  wondered  how 
his  growing  longings  and  the  ambitions  already 
manifest,  could  be  either  satisfied  or  soothed. 
She  sighed  now  as  she  watched  him. 

Nellie,  his  twin,  her  roguish  eyes  just  now 
dreamy  and  still,  sat  on  her  cricket  by  the  fire 
watching  at  a  window  opposite  that  into  which 
her  mother  w7as  looking,  the  reflection  of  the 
dancing  flames  outside  the  pane. 

"Is  it  really  the  witches,  I  wonder,  making 
their  tea?"  she  asked.  "Then  I  shall  ask 
mother  to  have  a  very  nice  fire  just  at  this 
time,  one  that  will  shine  ever  so  bright  out 
there.  And  one  day  I  will  watch  and  see 
them,  and  ask " 

"Ask  what?"  questioned  Bennie. 

"Ask  them  to  do  lots  of  things  for  us ;  to 
send  father  home,  first  of  all,  with  a  pocketful 
of  gold." 

But  the  other  children  interrupted  her  in 
almost  scornful  reproof. 

"They  couldn't  do  that  if  they  was  witches 
twice  over,"  said  Bennie.  "Never  !" 

"Never,  not  any  time,  if  they  was  witches 
really  and  truty,"  echoed  little  Sue,  dancing 
back  and  forth  between  them. 


188        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

"Nellie's  forgotten  what  mother  was  telling 
her  the  other  day,  and  she  doesn't  remember 
what  we  say  'Our  Father'  for,"  said  May  more 
gently. 

"Didn't  forget  a  single  thing,  so  there ! 
Ma  \  be  God  would  let  the  witches  do  it,  and 
send  'em.  Anyway,  he  made  'em,  if  there  is 
any  !" 

"If!"  saidBennie. 

But  they  had  no  time  to  argue  longer,  for  a 
door  in  the  rear  of  the  kitchen  was  opened, 
and  a  boy  of  thirteen  came  in  with  a  pail  of 
foaming  milk.  And  at  the  same  time  their 
mother  entered. 

"Your  milking  all  done,  Fred?  You're 
early  to-night.  And  your  supper  smells  good, 
May,  after  a  ride  in  the  cold.  Did  you  change 
your  shoes,  Bennie?  You  know  they  leak. 
And  what  has  mother's  baby  done  to-day?" 

"School  was  out  early7,  and  we  came  home 
around  by  Marcia's,  and  we  went  in  there  a 
minute.  She  had  to  go  right  home  to  help 
her  mother.  You  didn't  care?"  said  May. 
"She  showed  me  a  new  lace  she's  doing,  and 
lent  me  the  pattern." 

"I  don't  like  to  have  you  do  so  much  of 
that,"  said  her  mother.  "There's  a  book  I 
borrowed  for  you  in  my  satchel.  Yes,  I'll 


A    BELATED    THANKSGIVING.  189 

come  to  supper  right  away,  just  as  soon  as  I 
can  change  my  dress." 

"Let  mother  warm  her  a  little,  can't  you, 
and  get  rested,"  Fred  said  rebukingly .  "There's 
no  big  hurry  to-night." 

"You're  the  very  one  that  hurried." 

"Well,  I  can  wait,"  he  answered. 

"I  was  going  over  to  Luther's,"  he  said, 
when  a  few  minutes  later  they  were  seated  at 
the  supper  table.  "The  chores  are  all  done, 
and  I'll  be  back  early.  And,  mother,  wouldn't 
you  be  willing  for  me  to  ask  him  over  to  din 
ner  with  us  Thanksgiving  day?  He's  awfully 
lonesome." 

"I'd  be  very  willing,  my  boy,  if  we  were 
going  to  have  a  Thanksgiving  dinner." 

"Aren't  we?"  Fred  asked. 

"Can't  we  manage  and  contrive  somehow 
some  other  way,"  May  asked  regretfully,  while 
the  little  ones  stopped  eating  and  looked  up, 
round-eyed  and  sober. 

"I  don't  see  how  we  can,"  their  mother  an 
swered,  with  a  brave  attempt  at  cheerfulness, 
"unless  something  very  good  should  happen  to 
us.  I  don't  mean  that  we  aint  going  to  have 
anything  to  eat  that  day,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't 
afford  to  get  a  turkey,  or  even  have  a  pair  of 
our  chickens.  I  want  to  get  some  coal  within 


190  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

a  few  days  for  our  sitting-room  fire.  We 
shouldn't  want  to  do  without  that  in  these  long 
evenings,  when  we're  going  to  have  such  good 
times  reading  and  studying  and  playing  games." 
The  children  took  it  up. 

"And  popping  corn,"  Sue  said. 

"And  writing  letters  to  father,"  added  Nellie. 

"And  telling  stories,  and  hearing  'em,"  put 
in  Bennie. 

But  it  was  evident  that  they  all  were  disap 
pointed,  and  not  even  her  recital  of  the  after 
noon's  experiences  could  make  them  forget  it. 

Fred  went  out,  but  came  back  early.  Bennie 
read  till  he  was  sent  away  with  a  good-night 
kiss,  Sue  crept  into  her  mother's  arms  and  fell 
asleep  there,  while  Nellie  dozed  on  the  lounge, 
tired  with  the  day's  play. 

They  were  all  in  bed  at  last,  and  Mrs.  King 
locked  her  doors,  drew  her  curtains  closer,  and 
drew  up  to  the  stove  with  her  knitting,  to  face 
the  thoughts  that  she  knew  must  come  sooner 
or  later.  The  house  grew  still,  so  still  that  a 
cricket,  which  had  been  chirping  by  the  chim 
ney,  hushed  his  song,  as  if  oppressed  by  the 
lonesome  quiet.  Bruno,  the  dog,  allowed  to 
have  his  bed  in  the  kitchen  in  the  long  nights 
for  the  protection  his  nearness  gave,  crouched 
soberly  at  her  side,  as  if  he  understood  that 


A    BELATED    THANKSGIVING.  191 


she  was  far  from  glad.  Indeed,  her  thoughts 
were  sad  ones,  and  though  her  needles  clicked 
briskly,  they  were  swifter  yet.  Back  and 
forth,  round  and  round,  with  never  a  stitch 
dropped  in  the  stocking,  and  never  a  thread 
broken  or  awry  in  the  web  memory  was  weav 
ing  for  her. 

Five  years  before,  Avhen  Sue  was  a  baby 
and  Nellie  and  Bennie  had  hardly  left  baby 
hood  behind  them,  her  husband,  discouraged 
by  the  slow  gains  from  the  farm,  anxious  to 
win  a  speedier  and  ampler  competence  than  it 
at  best  could  yield  him ;  above  all,  desirous  of 
providing  for  his  children  better  opportunities 
than  he  had  had,  or  than  he  could  by  any  pos 
sibility  reach  for  them  there,  had  joined  the 
company  of  fortune  seekers  always  turning 
westward.  He  had  made  all  needed  arrange 
ments  for  their  comfort,  had  gone  with  good 
courage,  a  confident  hope  of  success,  and  had 
promised  to  come  home,  whether  successful  or 
not,  within  two  or  three  years  at  longest.  At 
first,  though  the  farm  was  lonely  and  her  cares 
many,  it  had  not  seemed  hard.  He  had  got 
work  at  once,  had  written  often,  and  had  sent 
money,  which  made  the  lessened  income  from 
the  farm  of  less  consequence.  But  the  remit 
tances  had  grown  fewer,  and  for  a  long  time 


192  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

ceased  altogether.  He  was  ill,  and  unable  to 
work  for  months  afterward.  Then  he  had  sent 
a  letter,  telling  of  small  investments  he  wanted 
to  make  with  his  earnings,  and  asking  if  she 
couldn't  "manage," — thrifty,  pathetic,  New 
England  word,  what  unheralded  heroism  it 
covers  !  And  now  for  some  time  he  had  sent 
small,  infrequent  sums,  which  barely  sufficed 
to  keep  them  all  in  comfort.  For  the  family 
needs  had  grown  and  multiplied  in  inverse 
ratio  to  the  contents  of  the  family  treasury. 
Her  best  foresight  could  secure  only  scanty 
revenues  from  the  acres  neither  she  nor  her 
children  could  till.  Mltan  while,  their  wants 
grew  daily,  and  needs  unfelt  at  first,  or  held 
in  hopeful  abeyance,  grew  urgent  and  clamor 
ous.  Fred  and  May  were  old  enough,  too,  to 
use  the  privileges  their  father  had  meant  to 
secure  them.  A  little  longer,  and  it  would  be 
too  late  to  give  them  the  fullest  benefits.  Nor 
was  she  certain  that  such  comforts  as  they  had 
would  long  be  theirs,  unless  some  help  came. 

Her  purse  held  a  trifle  more  than  would  buy 
a  ton  of  coal.  That  she  must  have  at  once, 
and  other  dollars  might  come  in  before  it  was 
gone.  The  other  things, — the  coat  Fred 
needed  so,  the  dress  she  had  meant  May  to 
have,  Sue's  cloak,  and  worst  of  all,  Bennie's 


A    BELATED    THANKSGIVING.  193 

shoes,  they  must  wait  for.  And  they  would 
have  to  do  without  their  Thanksgiving  dinner. 
"And  every  one  round  will  know  it,  children 
will  tell  things,  and  other  children  will  inquire, 
if  grown  people  don't,  as  very  likely  they  will. 
And  it  gives  them  another  thing  to  talk  about, 
and  makes  them  more  certain  that  John  has 
deserted  us.  And  that  is  the  worst  and  hard 
est  of  all !  I  can  bear  being  poor,  and  having 
to  scrimp  and  do  without,  but  I  am  afraid  I 
cannot  bear  having  them  say  things.  And 
they  are  beginning  to  say  worse  things,  too," 
said  this  lonely  woman  to  herself,  dropping 
her  knitting  and  sitting  quite  still.  "I  never 
would  believe  people  thought  such  things, 
much  less  that  they  would  hint  them  !  Didn't 
I  know  what  she  meant  when  Maria  Fitzgerald 
told  all  that  stuff  this  afternoon  ?  She  didn't 
know  whether  I  did  or  not, — I  didn't  let  her. 
I  don't  see  why  they  let  her  run  on  so — some 
one  could  have  stopped  her — unless  they  really 
wanted  me  to  hear  it  all.  What  if  some  men 
have  gone  out  there  and  drifted  away  from 
their  families,  and  maybe  forgotten  they  had 
any  at  all,  all  men  don't !  There's  a  differ 
ence,  I'd  have  them  know  !  And  very  likely 
it  wasn't  the  same  to  begin  with  with  them  as 
with  us.  They  needn't  imply  a  comparison, 


194  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

much  less  talk  about  desertions  and — divorce!" 
The  last  word  came  with  a  shudder,  and  in  a 
moment  more  she  was  sobbing  bitterly.  It 
was  for  only  a  minute  or  two,  though.  She 
quickly  recovered  herself,  with  only  a  little 
longing  cry  of  "Oh,  John,  John  !"  as  if  he 
could  hear  and  help. 

Thanksgiving  came  that  year  in  a  dreary 
week.  It  had  been  wet  for  days,  and  Thurs 
day  itself  was  drizzly  and  bleak.  The  King 
children  had  accepted  their  disappointment, 
and  were  trying  to  see  what  fun  they  could 
have  by  themselves  to  make  up  for  it.  They 
were  not  a  little  consoled  when  their  mother 
told  them  they  might  have  a  bit  of  candy-pull 
at  night  or  the  next  evening.  And  taken  into 
her  confidence  they  were  quite  willing  to  help 
her  plan  and  economize,  and  make  "the  best  of 
things,"  a  cheerful  best. 

"If  only  somebody  don't  come  in  that  morn 
ing,  or  even  at  dinner  time  !"  sighed  May,  who 
loved  to  keep  up  appearances,  "They  do  some 
times.  On  purpose  to  see,  I  do  believe." 

"Oh,  no,  they  won't,  unless  it's  Zekle,  ped 
dling,  and  you  don't  care  for  him,"  said  Fred 
cheerfully. 

"But  I  do,"  May  protested,  "and  so  does 
mother.  We'll  set  the  table  nice,  and  eat  just 
at  noon.  Most  folks  get  home  at  that  time." 


A    BELATED    THANKSGIVING.  195 

But  "Zekle"  did  not.  They  had  just  sat 
down  when  he  carae,  and  his  small  eyes  saw  in 
a  moment  all  that  was  on  their  snowy  tablecloth, 
as  they  knew.  And  they  were  aware  that  by 
to-morrow  all  their  neighbors  would  have  heard 
about  it,  with  additions,  inferences  and  varia 
tions.  And  the  mother,  at  least,  knew  that  it 
would  furnish  one  more  link  to  the  chain  of 
circumstantial  evidence  that  supported  their 
theory  of  the  father's  absence. 

Perhaps  it  was  for  that  reason,  perhaps  for 
others,  that  she  stayed  in  quite  closely  for 
some  days  thereafter.  Even  the  Indian  sum 
mer  weather  could  not  tempt  her  farther  than 
the  end  of  the  lane. 

Fred  and  May  went  one  still,  mild  afternoon 
to  the  village  for  the  mail  and  to  do  other 
errands.  They  took  Sue  with  them,  and  Bennie 
and  Nell  were  spending  the  day  with  Miss 
Hannah.  She  loved  children,  and  often  had 
some  little  friend  with  her. 

Left  to  herself,  for  she  could  not  be  per 
suaded  to  accompany  the  older  children,  and 
growing  restless  within  the  silent  house,  Mrs. 
King  stepped  out  into  the  yard.  Bruno  was 
on  the  porch,  and  as  she  went  by,  he  got  up 
and  sniffed  uneasily,  as  if  some  one  were 
about.  And  presently,  in  the  lane,  a  man 
appeared. 


196  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

"A  tramp,  very  likely.  But  I'm  not  afraid, 
with  Bruno,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I'm  glad  I 
fastened  the  door." 

The  stranger,  if  stranger  it  were,  was  walk 
ing  very  fast.  Tramps  do  not  often  hurry. 
Perhaps  it  was — 

"Why,  John,  John  !" 

He  had  indeed  come,  successful  in  a  meas 
ure,  and  to  stay. 

"I  only  waited  to  get  so  I  could  stay,"  he 
said,  as  they  sat  together  that  'night  after  the 
delighted  children  had  at  last  been  sent  away. 
"And  I  should  have  come  before,  anyhow,  if 
I'd  realized  about  things.  You  ought  to  have 
told  me." 

"Why,  there  wasn't  anything  to  tell,"  Avis 
said.  Her  eyes  were  very  happy,  and  her 
hands  lay  folded  idly  in  her  lap.  The  house 
was  warm  and  still.  The  fragrance  of  her 
plants  came  from  the  stand  by  the  window, 
where  the  moonlight,  almost  as  bright  as  the 
lamplight,  came  between  their  leaves  and  lay 
in  little  odd  patches  of  shadow  on  the  floor  in 
the  corner.  A  cricket — was  it  the  same  one? 
— was  chirping  happily  beside  the  chimney. 

So  they  had  their  Thankskiging — for  the 
children  remembered  the  feast  denied  them — 
a  day  of  good  cheer,  of  merriment,  of  deep, 


A    BELATED    THANKSGIVING.  197 

grateful  content.  And  once  more  "Zekle" 
opened  the  door  as  they  sat  at  table.  He  had 
not  heard  the  news. 

"Oh,  got  company,  have  ye?"  he  said,  con 
fusedly,  but  still  cunningly,  noting  the  holiday- 
dainties.  "Why,  it's  Mr.  King,  I  declare. 
Well,  well !  And  I  guess  your  folks  is  glad ! 
Looks  like  Thanksgiving  day  here  now,  I'm 
sure." 

"It  is,"  said  Avis  quietly.  No  curious  com 
ment  could  pain  her  now.  "Ours  was  belated." 


LUTHER'S  INHERITANCE. 


The  Hathorn  homestead  was  the  barest  and 
dreariest  of  all  the  farmhouses  in  the  region. 
Its  plainness,  too,  was  made  more  striking  by 
the  absolute  neatness  that  characterized  the 
premises.  Its  wide  door-yard  was  swept 
clean,  its  wood-pile,  on  the  left,  was  primly 
square,  and  not  a  chip  or  broken  shingle  dared 
to  stray  from -the  neighborhood  of  the  weather- 
beaten,  battered  chopping-block. 

There  was  never  a  flower-bed  underneath 
the  windows,  nor  even  a  rose-bush  whose  blos 
soms  could  scatter  their  petals  on  the  gravel- 
less  walk.  The  mistress  of  the  house  did  not 
love  such  things.  There  was  only  a  tall  clus 
ter  of  lilac-bushes  half- way  down  to  the  road, 
and  two  or  three  ancient  apple-trees  near  the 
well. 

The  unshaded  house  had  never  been  painted. 
It  stood  on  a  tiny  elevation  surrounded  by 


LUTHER'S  INHERITANCE.  199 

fields  that  looked  as  if  they  had  little  to  yield 
their  owner,  save  a  scanty  hay-crop,  or  some 
bushels  of  corn,  though  in  one  corner  a  garden 
showed  its  carefully  kept  rows,  and  a  bit  of  a 
strawberry-bed  displayed  thrifty  runners. 

The  barn,  a  long,  low,  dingy  structure,  was 
opposite  the  house.  Behind  it  a  wide  pasture 
stretched,  green  and  inviting  despite  its  rocki- 
ness.  Through  the  lane  that  led  to  it  there 
filed,  night  and  morning,  a  little  herd  of  cows, 
well-fed,  sleek,  and  gentle.  They  were  the 
dependence  of  the  family,  and  Mrs.  Hathorn's 
butter  was  famous  for  its  excellence.  It  was 
the  thing  she  prided  herself  on  ;  one  of  the  few 
things  she  could  do.  Therefore,  with  much 
firmness,  she  refused  to  consent  to  merging 
the  little  dairy  into  a  milk-route.  A  venture, 
at  best ;  besides,  they  couldn't  start  out  in  it 
without  running  in  debt,  and  that  she  would 
not  do. 

This  had  been,  as  it  were,  the  key-note  of 
her  hard,  toilsome  life.  By  dint  of  continuous 
industry,  of  the  most  careful  economy,  and 
with  deprivation  of  much  that  makes  life  sweet, 
they  could  win  a  maintenance  from  their  rocky 
acres  ;  could  have  food,  and  shelter,  and  lights, 
and  such  plain  clothing  as  was  necessary,  and 
for  it  all  owe  nothing.  So  they  had  kept  on 


200  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

in  the  old  routine,  mother  and  son,  these  many 
years.  There  had  been  other  children  in  the 
family,  but  they  had  died  of  a  neighborhood 
epidemic  in  their  childhood,  and  the  father  had 
shortly  followed  them.  Luther,  the  youngest, 
and  in  many  respects  the  least  promising,  was 
the  only  one  left.  A  stolid,  shy,  spare  young 
man,  who  submitted  for  the  most  part  to  his 
mother's  plans  and  followed  the  guidance  of  her 
management  in  all  the  work  of  the  farm,  yet 
who  had  ambitions  of  his  own,  and  periodical 
discontents  with  the  standing  order  of  things. 

He  had  wanted  to  try  market-gardening, 
but  she  dreaded  the  possible  failure  in  it.  He 
had  longed  for  a  milk-wagon  and  the  belong 
ings,  that  he  might  relieve  her  of  her  heaviest 
tasks.  He  had  talked  of  opening  a  small  quarry 
that  showed  its  stony  head  in  the  farther  pas 
ture  ;  but  all  of  these  meant  risk,  and  Mrs. 
Hathorn  would  not  agree  to  them. 

"We've  always  lived  honest,  and  paid  our 
debts  as  we  made  'em,  and  had  a  comfortable 
living,  so's  we  could  ask  a  stranger  to  a  meal 
any  time,  or  have  our  relations  come.  I  think 
'twould  kill  me  if  we  owed  anybody  and  couldn't 
pay  'em,  or  if  the  place  had  to  be  mortgaged 
or  anything.  I  think  we'd  better  keep  right 
along,  Luther." 


LUTHER'S  INHERITANCE.  201 

And  Luther  would  yield  a  silent  unsmiling 
submission,  and  would  not  harness  his  gray 
horse  to  drive  over  on  the  west  road  of  an 
evening  for  a  week  thereafter.  It  was  on  the 
west  road  that  Mary  Donaldson  lived.  They 
had  been  nearer  neighbors  once,  and  he  had 
used  to  draw  her  on  his  clumsy  sled  to  and 
from  the  schoolhouse  in  the  winter  weather, 
when  both  were  little  children.  She  taught 
the  district  school  herself  now. 

On  this  June  day,  when  my  story  com 
mences,  Luther,  going  into  dinner,  could  see 
across  lots  and  discern  with  his  strong  young 
eyes,  a  slim,  brown  figure  surmounted  by  a 
white  shade  hat,  and  followed  closely  by 
smaller  figures  in  pink  and  blue  and  grey,  get 
ting,  all  of  them,  as  near  as  they  could  to  "the 
teacher,"  hurrying  along  the  roadside,  eager 
to  make  the  most  of  the  brief  morning. 

It  was  not  of  this  that  he  spoke,  however, 
as  they  ate. 

"Simms'  folks  are  having  a  piazza  put  on,  I 
guess.  And  I  do  believe  Miss  Trotter's  hav 
ing  her  house  painted.  How  much  knitting 
would  it  take,  do  you  suppose?  'Taint  bigger 
than  a  bandbox." 

"Jotham  Simms  is  in  debt  for  the  lumber  his 
barn  is  built  of,  now,  that  new  one,"  rejoined 
10 


202  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

Mrs.  Hathorn,  quickly.  "And  his  own  cousin, 
that's  sick  with  consumption,  came  there  last 
week,  thinkin'  to  stop  a  spell  and  visit,  and 
he  was  shown  so  plain  that  he  wa'n't  welcome 
that  he  took  the  stage  the  next  day  for  the 
Corners,  where  there's  an  aunt  of  his  lives. 
And  he  and  Jotham  was  brought  up  together, 
like  own  brothers,  too.  I  tell  you,  Luther, 
things  aint  always  just  as  they  seem  to  be." 

"I  could  paint  this  house,"  volunteered 
Luther,  now  the  ice  was  broken,  "and  the 
paint  couldn't  cost  much." 

"'T would  be  something.  And  when  we'd 
begun,  we'd  want  to  do  something,  and  a  good 
many  somethings,  inside,"  and  she  glanced 
around  the  room  wistfully.  "I  don't  like  the 
look  of  things  any  better  than  you  do,  but  I 
guess  we'd  better  wait.  Cyrus  Lane  may  take 
the  corner  wood-lot.  That  would  put  us  in  as 
good  shape  as  anybody  round." 

But  Luther  shook  his  head  dubiously.  That 
bit  of  purchase  had  been  discussed  too  long  for 
him  to  have  any  hope  of  its  speedy  consumma 
tion. 

"I'm  going  over  in  the  further  pasture  mend 
ing  fence.  If  you  want  me  you  can  ring  the 
big  bell.  1  sha'n't  probably  be  back  till  sup 
per-time,"  he  said,  having  finished  his  dinner, 


LUTHER'S  INHERITANCE.  203 

stroked  the  black  cat,  and  filled  the  wood-box. 

"I  sha'n't  want  you,  I  don't  imagine.  But 
if  I  was  you  I'd  come  home  early,  and  do  the 
chores  in  middlin'  season.  It's  meeting-night 
at  the  school-house,  you  know,  and  I  thought 
we'd  go,  if  I  don't  get  too  tired." 

She  watched  him  as  he  strode  off  down  the 
lane,  noticing  that  he  was  not  whistling  as 
usual,  and  that  Bowser,  the  dog,  trotting  along 
by  his  side,  did  not  get  even  a  word  of  recog 
nition,  and  she  sighed  over  her  dishes,  glanc 
ing  around,  as  she  put  them  in  their  places  in 
the  tall  corner  cupboard,  to  see  again  how 
plain  and  homely  the  rooms  were. 

"If  there  was  any  way  I  could  do  anything ! 
But  I  truly  don't  see  as  there  is.  The  butter- 
money  just  keeps  us  along.  I  don't  doubt 
maybe  Luther  would  make  more  some  other 
way,  but  it's  the  getting  into  it  that  costs.  I 
didn't  tell  him,  but  I  had  three-quarters  enough 
to  buy  a  milk-wagon  saved  out  of  the  fleece- 
money  and  the  pop-corn  he  laughed  at,  and 
half  of  it  went  to  old  Aunt  Nancy  when  she 
broke  her  leg,  and  it  took  the  other  half  to 
make  us  whole  when  Cynthia  and  her  children 
came  last  summer.  Poor,  little  peaked  things, 
I  declare  I  don't  know  which  looked  most 
helpless,  she  or  the  young  ones.  And  he  said 


204  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

as  well  as  ine,  that  we  couldn't  let  'em  go  back 
under  a  month.  And  four  extra  in  your  fam 
ily  does  make  a  difference,  if  they  are  own 
folks  and  you  don't  have  to  make  much  change 
for  'em.  If  I'd  had  a  little  to  do  with,  then, 
Cythy'd  have  taken  hold  and  helped  me  fix 
up  here  ;  but  'twa'n't  no  use  then.  I  couldn't 
spare  a  cent.  And  I  believe  it  looks  worse 
than  it  did  then." 

She  tapped  disconsolately,  with  the  toe  of 
her  coarse,  worn  shoe,  the  unpainted  floor, 
white  as  frequent  scrubbings  could  make  it, 
but  worn  and  slivered  by  years  of  wear. 
There  were  green  paper  curtains  at  the  win 
dows,  made  necessary  by  the  absence  of  blinds. 
An  oilcloth  cover  was  on  one  table,  and  the 
snowy  table-cloth  was  still  on  the  other.  The 
stove  was  clean  and  shining,  and  there  was  no 
dust  nor  litter  anywhere,  but  the  utter  absence 
of  ornament  and  even  of  all  attempts  at  beauty 
was  the  more  striking  in  contrast  with  the 
loveliness  outside. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  entry,  a  half 
open  door  revealed  a  room,  only  less  bare. 
Here,  the  floor  was  painted,  and  there  was  a 
crimson  table-cover  on  a  square  stand,  and  a 
patch-work  cushion  in  the  rocking-chair.  It 
had  a  tidy  on  it,  too,  this  chair,  which  Mary 


LUTHER'S  INHERITANCE.  205 

Donaldson  had  given  one  Christmas.  Mrs. 
Hathorn  noticed  as  she  passed  the  door  on  an 
errand  into  the  entry  that  the  tidy  was  side 
ways,  and  that  there  was  a  thin  layer  of  dust 
on  the  album  that  lay  on  the  table.  Going  in 
to  right  these  matters,  she  stopped  a  moment 
by  the  west  window  to  adjust  the  curtains,  and 
looked  out  in  the  same  direction  that  her  son's 
eyes  had  wandered. 

'  Tis  hard  for  Luther !"  she  said  all  to  her 
self.  "He'd  have  brought  a  wife  here  five 
years  ago,  if  'twas  a  home  to  bring  her  to.  And 
Mary's  a  good,  faithful  girl.  1  haint  got  a 
mite  o'  fault  to  find  wTith  her.  And  I  don't 
doubt,  with  the  knack  she  has,  and  the  things 
she's  got  ready,  and  what  she's  got  saved,  she'd 
make  a  very  different  place  of  it  in  a  very 
little  while.  It's  her  way,  and  her  mother's 
way.  Their  sittin'- room's  as  homelike  and 
pleasant  as  can  be,  without  very  much  in  it 
either.  If  one  of  my  girls  had  lived,  p'raps 
I'd  have  had  more  faculty  as  well's  more  cour 
age  about  things,"  and  a  tear  or  two  rose  in 
the  grey  eyes  and  rolled  down  the  wrinkled 
cheek.  She  wiped  them  hastily  away,  however, 
with  one  corner  of  her  gingham  apron,  and 
went  on  with  her  soliloquy .  "And  I  don't 
know,  sometimes,  but  'twould  pay,  if  it  was  a 


206  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

venture.  Maybe  a  man  has  better  courage  with 
a  cheerful,  homelike  place  to  come  to  when 
his  day's  work's  done.  Luther's  trusty  and 
steady  at  his  task,  but  there  is  folks  gets  on 
faster.  Though,  poor  boy,  if  he  had  what  be 
longs  to  him  there  wouldn't  be  any  need  of 
his  slavin'  nor  stintin'.  That  was  the  queerest 
mess  !  I  think  likely  a  law-suit  would  have  won 
it,  but  I  wouldn't  favor  it,  against  his  own 
father's  brothers,  too.  Let  'em  keep  it  if  they've 
a  mind  to.  We  can  get  along  without  it.  And 
I  wouldn't  swap  my  conscience  for  Silas 
Hathorn's,  for  he's  at  the  head  and  foot  of  it, 
being  the  oldest,  and  a  good  deal  stronger 
willed  than  Ephraim.  I  haint  seen  either  on 
'em  for  twenty  years,  not  since  Enoch  was 
buried.  And  I  sha'n't  ever  be  likely  to.  If 
they  wouldn't  take  notice  when  Luther  was  lit 
tle,  and  me  a-having  a  hard  time  to  face  things, 
wrhy  of  course  they  won't  now.  But  just  a 
little  money, — a  few  hundreds  where  they've 
got  thousands, — would  make  this  world  such  a 
different  place  to  Luther.  He'd  have  a  home, 
then  !  I  don't  care  so  much  for  myself.  I'm 
hardened  to  it,  I  guess,"  and  the  honest  lips, 
which  never  could  be  unkindly,  no  matter  how 
much  sorrow  or  anxiety  or  disappointment 
they  had  shut  into  her  patient  heart,  refusing 


LUTHER'S  INHERITANCE.  207 

to  complain, — parted  now  in  a  broad,  pitying 
smile.  "But  I  don't  see,"  she  added,  "how  it 
can  be  helped,  not  just  now  !" 

It  was  not  ten  minutes  later  that  wheels 
sounded  in  the  yard,  and  Mrs.  Hathorn,  open 
ing  the  door,  saw  an  old-fashioned,  dusty 
wagon,  with  a  robe  laid  on  the  back  of  the 
seat,  country  fashion.  In  it  sat  a  withered 
looking  old  man,  thin  and  brown,  but  with 
piercing  dark  eyes  under  his  gray,  shaggy 
lashes.  The  hands  that  held  the  reins  looked 
weak  and  tremulous,  too  feeble,  Mrs.  Hathorn 
thought,  to  guide  the  strong,  young  horse. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?  she  asked, 
stepping  out  on  the  door-stone. 

"Xothino;    nothing; — unless   you  give  me   a 

O  '  O  */  O 

drink  of  water  here.  My  colt  is  restless,  and 
I  don't  like  to  leave  him.  I  had  my  lunch 
down  beside  the  spring  here,  and  not  being 
able  to  get  out  to  get  a  drink  with  it,  I'm 
rather  thirsty." 

"My  son  should  hold  him,  and  let  you  get 
out  and  rest,"  she  said,  "if  he  was  round  home 
this  afternoon.  You  look  beat  out." 

"A  little  tired,  that's  all,  he  answered,  as  he 
drank  the  milk  she  brought  out  with  the  asked 
for  \vater.  "I've  ridden  quite  a  good  bit  to 
day,  more  than  I'm  used  to.  And  I'd  forgotten 
these  roads  were  so  ledgy." 


208  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

"Somebody  that  knows  the  place,"  thought 
Mrs.  Hathorn,  as  she  took  back  her  glasses. 
"But  I  can't  place  him  anywheres.  May  have 
been  before  I  came  here  ;  he  looks  old  enough. 
But  if  'twas  my  folks,  I  wouldn't  let  him  ride 
'round  alone  with  that  colt  prancing  and  skit 
tish,  and  them  thin,  tremblin'  hands  !  It  aint 
safe.  And  how  sharp  he  does  look  at  any 
body.  I'd  be  almost  afraid  if  he  didn't  seem 
so  old  and  feeble." 

"Won't  you  sit  and  rest  awhile,"  she  asked, 
coming  to  the  door  again  "It's  shady,  this 
side  of  the  house,  after  dinner.  May  be  your 
horse  will  stand." 

"No,  I  thank  ye,"  he  answered,  and  she 
noticed  that  his  quavering  voice  had  a  familiar 
ring  to  it.  "No,  thank  ye,  I  guess  I  must  go  on. 
Good  day,  ma'am  !"  and  he  bowed  courteously 
as  he  drove  off. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  sat  at  her  window 
with  some  mending  in  her  lap,  and  started  at 
the  sound  of  voices  and  of  hurrying  feet  at  her 
door.  Some  one  had  been  hurt,  they  were 
bringing  him  in.  Of  course  it  was  Luther. 

"No,  it  isn't  Luther,  Mrs.  Hathorn.  It's  an 
old  man  got  thrown  out  down  the  road  here, 
and  got  hurt  a  little.  I  think  he's  broken  his 
ankle,  but  he  sticks  to  it  it's  only  a  sprain.  A 


LUTHER'S  INHERITANCE.  209 

stranger,  ain't  he?  Anyway,  he  is  to  us,  but 
he  wouldn't  let  us  carry  him  into  Grafton's — it 
happened  just  a  little  way  below  there — but 
made  us  bring  him  up  here.  And  where'll  we 
put  him  ?" 

Of  course  Mrs.  Hathorn's  spare  bed-room 
was  opened,  the  curtains  tied  up  hurriedly, 
and  the  blue  and  white  spread  turned  down 
from  the  comfortable-looking  bed. 

"I  don't  know  him  from  Adam,"  she  was 
explaining,  excitedly.  "He  came  along  here  a 
little  while  ago  and  wanted  a  drink.  I  thought 
that  horse  was  too  smart  for  him.  And  does 
anybody  know  who  his  folks  are?" 

This  inquiry  was  made,  of  course,  out  of 
hearing  of  the  injured  stranger  ;  nobody  could 
answer  it,  nor  was  it  answered  for  a  long  time 
thereafter.  The  injury  proved  rather  a  serious 
one,  especially  to  be  sustained  by  so  old  a  man. 

"For,"  said  Mrs.  Ilathorn,  "I  don't  believe 
he's  a  day  under  seventy,  and  I'd  be  willing  to 
put  five  or  ten  years  on  to  that.  It'll  make 
your  work  harder,  Luther,  this  time  'o  year, 
too,  but  there's  no  help  for  it.  He  don't  look 
to  me  like  a  poor  man,  and  he'll  most  likely 
be  able  to  pay  for  staying  here,  if  not  for  the 
care.  And  if  he  was  poor,"  she  declared  with 
vehement  and  generous  energy,  "and  couldn't 


210        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

pay  a  cent,  why,  I'd  keep  him  all  the  quicker. 
I  do  feel  a  little  worried,  though,"  she  added, 
"about  the  doctor's  bill.  That  lesf  wrill  have  to 

o 

be  attended  to,  right  along,  for  some  time 
no"w,  and  I  s'pose  I  will  be  responsible." 

But  her  anxiety  was  lessened  that  very 
evening  by  seeing  their  visitor  himself  pay  the 
physician  for  his  services  when  the  latter  left 
him,  a  practice  which  he  followed  at  every  sub 
sequent  visit.  The  old  leathern  wallet  from 
which  he  took  the  money  was  singularly  gaunt 
in  its  appearance.  And,  though  payment  was 
always  forthcoming  for  the  few  medicines  he 
needed,  and  for  whatever  his  condition  ren 
dered  necessary,  he  never  indulged  in  any  lux 
uries,  nor  seemed  to  crave  anything  beyond 
the  simple  fare  that  Mrs.  Hathorn  provided 
for  him. 

He  lay  quite  patiently  on  his  bed  while  the 
bone  was  knitting,  yet  seemed  as  pleased  as  a 
child  when  he  could  be  lifted  to  the  lounge, 
and,  a  little  later,  occupy  the  great  rocking- 
chair  in  the  family  room.  Here,  by  the  east 
window,  that  looked  out  over  pleasant  fields 
and  pasture  lands  to  the  low  hills  of  the  sun 
rising,  he  would  sit,  strangely  content,  day 
after  day. 

Mrs.  Hathorn  used  to  beg  him  to  sit  in  the 
other  room. 


LUTHER'S  INHERITANCE.  211 

"It's  cooler  there,  and  fixed  up  to  be  a  little 
more  seemly,"  she  would  say.  "You  must  be 
tired  of  this  homely  place.  Now  do  let  me 
move  your  chair  in  there." 

"Xo,  no,"  he  would  answer,  "1  like  this 
best." 

"I've  meant  this  dozen  years  to  have  things 
different,"  she  went  on.  "And  maybe  I  shall 
get  to  it  sometime.  I  like  the  place  because 
iny  husband  brought  me  here  when  we  were 
married.  And  some  of  his  folks  had  lived 
here  for  I  don't  know  how  long  before  that. 
They  moved  away  about  that  time,  over  east 
here,  somewhere  near  where  you  came  from,  I 
shouldn't  wonder.  Hathorn,  the  name  is,  and 
they  all  descended  from  Jabez  Hathorn ;  that 
was  my  husband's  father's  name,  too." 

But  the  old  man  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
talk  about  his  neighbors,  if,  indeed,  any  of  the 
Hathorns  were  among  them,  nor  did  he  ask 
many  questions,  though  he  noticed  curiously 
every  detail  of  the  family  life.  He  was  de 
lighted  when  one  afternoon  Mary  Donaldson 
came  over  and  brought  him  a  cluster  of  small, 
spicy  pinks  tied  up  with  a  bit  of  southern 
wood. 

"There  was  a  root  of  that  here,  once,"  said 
Mrs.  Hathorn,  "yes,  and  of  the  southernwood, 


212         UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

too.  But  you  know  I'm  no  hand  with  flowers, 
and  I  believe  they  both  died,  long  ago.  Twas 
just  in  that  corner  by  the  front  door  that  the 
pink  root  was,"  pointing  out  where,  indeed, 
the  man's  eyes  seemed  to  have  been  turned 
before.  "I'd  like  to  go  out  a  little  while,"  she 
went  on,  "so  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  get  Alary 
to  sit  with  you,  Mr.  Tullock." 

''What  did  you  say?  Oh,  certainly,  cer- 
tainlv.  I  shouldn't  mind  being  alone  here," 

•/  o 

he  answered. 

And  though  he  enjoyed  the  afternoon  with 
his  young  guest,  he  seemed  either  anxious  lest 
Mrs.  Hathorn  should  stay  in  too  closely,  or  a 
little  disturbed  by  their  careful  surveillance, 
and  both  he  and  they  were  glad  as  the  injured 
limb  grew  daily  stronger,  and  the  days  of  his 
confinement  fewer.  He  was  evidently  not  a 
demonstrative  person,  and  Mrs.  Hathorn  was 
not  surprised  or  disturbed  because,  when  he 
left  them,  his  thanks,  though  warm  and  hearty, 
were  few  and  somewhat  constrained. 

"Poor  old  man,"  she  said,  "I  should  like  to 
know  what  sort  of  a  home  he's  got,  to  like 
this  place  so  well.  For  he  did  like  it,  and 
hate  to  leave  someway.  I  found  him  crying 
at  that  east  window  this  morning.  Of  course 
I  didn't  let  him  know  I  saw.  I'm  going  to 


LUTHER'S  INHERITANCE.  213 

inquire  of  Cynthy.  Tullock — I  believe  that 
was  the  name  of  your  father's  grandmother, 
Luther." 

"That  valise  that  had  the  name  on  it  might 
have  belonged  to  her,"  said  Luther,  irreverently. 
It  was  in  this  way  that  they  had  learned  their 
visitor's  name.  "T was  old  enough,  I'm  sure." 

It  wras  in  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which 
the  old  man  had  gone,  and  the  young  man  was 
in  excellent  spirits.  Mr.  Tullock  had  paid 
well  for  board  and  care  for  himself  and  his 
horse.  And  indeed  it  was  not  often  they  had 
had  a  sum  so  large  as  this  modest  amount. 

"It's  as  good  as  summer  boarders, "said  Mrs. 
Hathorn,  "and  I  never  could  take  them  on  ac 
count  of  the  house." 

One  of  the  first  things  planned  was  the 
painting  of  the  house.  And  before  the  first 
coat  was  fairly  dry,  a  letter  came  to  Luther, 
which  contained  important  news.  His  share 
of  the  property  of  his  grandfather,  it  stated, 
having  awaited  certain  formalities  of  law,  was 
now  at  his  disposal.  It  was  necessary  only 
for  him  to  prove  his  identity  at  Hayford  bank, 
where  the  amount  was  now  deposited. 

Of  course  changes  carne  fast  and  thick  there 
after,  and  the  Hathorn  farmhouse  suffered 
transformation  at  once. 


214  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

"I  hate  to  have  the  old  place  changed,  after 
all,"  said  Mrs.  Hathorn.  '  'T won't  ever  seem 
the  same,  of  course.  But  there,  I've  had  my 
home  in  it  as  it  was,  and  my  life.  And  if 
Luther  and  Mary's  going  to  have  theirs 
together,  I  think  it's  time  they  begun." 

This  was  to  cousin  Cynthia,  who  was  mak 
ing  a  little  visit  in  early  September,  helping 
Mrs.  Hathorn  move  and  make  and  plan,  as  the 
bare  old  house  was  made  to  take  on  a  new 
aspect.  She  was  coming  again  by  and  by,  for 
the  wedding. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "Cousin  Silas  will  be 
here.  Though  you  haven't  told  me  you  liked 
him." 

"Silas  who?" 

"Why,  Silas  Hathorn,  of  course." 

"I  haven't  seen  the  man  for  over  twenty 
years,"  said  Mrs.  Hathorn. 

Cynthia  laughed  merrily. 

"Except  when  you  took  care  of  him,  when 
he  was  thrown  out  and  hurt  here,  at  your 
door." 

Mrs.  Hathorn  stood  bewildered.  "1  do  be 
lieve  it  was,  and  I  might  have  known,"  she 
said.  "But  I  truly  never  knew  it,  Cynthy." 

"He  said  you  didn't,  and  he  liked  it  all  the 
better.  He  was  so  pleased  to  think  you  should 


LUTHER'S  INHERITANCE.  215 

pick  up  that  name  off  the  old  valise  and  tack 
it  on  him  !  But,  don't  you  know,  that's  where 
Luther's  property  comes  from." 

"When  we  was  married,"  put  in  Mrs. 
Hathorn,  "my  husband's  father  moved  off  this 
home  place  and  give  it  to  us.  And  he  took 
his  two  other  boys  and  moved  over  east  here, 
where  he  had  another  farm,  ever  so  much  bet 
ter,  and  some  mill  property,  and  I  guess  some 
land  besides.  He  said  we  should  have  our 
share,  just  the  same.  And  he  did  well  over 
there.  But  he  died  sudden,  and  things  was 
mixed  up,  and  a  good  deal  of  the  property  in 
Silas's  name,  and  nothing  ever  came  to  us  at 
all.  And  I  wouldn't  fight  for  it,  nor  even 
ask.  Here  we  was,  and  they  knew  it.  But 
what  started  Silas  out?" 

"Why"  replied  Cynthia,  "I  don't  hardly 
know  what  'twas  at  first.  He  took  a  notion 
he'd  ride  over  this  way  and  see  how  you  was 
situated.  You  know  he  wanted  Ephraim's 
children  to  have  it,  he  thinks  so  much  of  'em. 
But  I  suppose  his  mind  wasn't  quite  easy. 
And  then  coming  here,  and  being  sick,  and 
sitting  there  by  that  east  window  in  his 
mother's  chair — oh,  he  told  me  all  about  it 
when  I  was  over  that  way  this  summer — it 
made  him  think  maybe  that  Luther's  as  near 


216         UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

of  kin  as  anybody.  For  you  know  he  put  on 
quite  a  slice  out  of  his  own  share,  to  make 
things  even,  he  said." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Hathorn,  "I  didn't  know 
that.  I  thought  'twas  just  in  the  straight  line 
of  inheritance.  But  I  ain't  sorry,  I  think 
Luther  and  Mary  will  make  a  good  use  of  it." 

"That's  just  what  he  thought,"  said  Cousin 
Cynthia. 


ABNER'S  WAY, 


"I  don't  care  !  It  is  mean  for  Uncle  to  be 
so  stingy  !  There,  I've  said  it  if  I  didn't  mean 
to.  And  what  else  is  it?  We  haven't  had  a 
regular  Thanksgiving  since  I  can  remember. 
Never  had  anybody,  more  than  Aunt  Nancy  or 
Grandma  Carr,  in  all  these  years ;  and  I  did 
think  maybe  we  could  this  year.  But,  of 
course,  they  won't  think  of  such  a  thing,  and 
wouldn't  do  it  if  they  did  !" 

She  sat  on  the  cellar  stairs,  this  tearful, 
indignant  maiden  —  Nannie  Holcomb,  one 
Monday  morning  in  November.  It  was  a 
bright,  bracing  day,  and  some  small  rays  of 
sunshine  penetrated  even  the  cellar's  semi- 
darkness.  One  particularly  lively  sunbeam — 
its  capricious  course  determined  by  the  flutter 
ing  clothes  on  the  dryer  outside,  went  dancing 
up  and  down  among  the  bins  and  barrels'  as  if 
to  inspect  their  contents,  or,  more  likely,  in  a 


218  UNDER    FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

kind  of  sunny  ecstasy  over  the  harvest  wealth 
therein  displayed.  And,  in  truth,  there  was 
good  reason  for  exultation,  or  as  grieving 
Nanny  thought,  thanksgiving.  There  were  long 
bins  of  potatoes,  sound,  shapely,  sizable  ;  bar 
rels  of  apples,  red  and  gold  and  russet ;  boxes  of 
beets,  showing  their  ruddy  skins  through  cling 
ing  soil,  and  big,  dull-colored  turnips.  There 
were  great  heaps  of  golden  pumpkins  shining 
in  the  gloom  like  globes  of  solidified  sunshine, 
and  smaller  piles  of  winter  squashes  of  paler 
tints  and  lesser  size.  There  were  baskets  of 
late  pears  in  the  warmest  corner,  and  boxes 
with  suspicious  coverings  whence  came  a  fra 
grance  as  of  grapes.  Through  the  gauzy  doors 
of  a  swinging  cupboard  might  be  seen  the 
golden  balls  of  the  last  churning,  and  by  their 
side,  on  a  long  tray,  were  combs  dripping  with 
translucent  honey. 

"Enough  here,  anybody  would  think,  to 
keep  Thanksgiving  with,"  went  on  the  girl, 
"only  'twould  be  like  the  play  of  Hamlet  with 
Hamlet  left  out,  for  I  don't  believe  Uncle  Enos 
has  saved  out  any  turkey  ;  and  I  should  think 
he  might !" 

And  the  girl  lost  herself  in  regretful  reverie 
once  more.  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  this  little 
Nannie,  though  the  small  hands  were  a  trifle 


ABNER'S  WAY.  219 

red  with  much  housework,  the  soft  brown  hair 
blown  into  tangled  waves  by  the  wind  as  she 
had  gone  in  and  out,  the  fair  cheeks  tear- 
stained  now,  and  the  brown  eyes  red  with 
crying.  Enos  Carr  had  taken  her  into  his 
heart  and  home  in  her  desolate,  orphaned 
babyhood.  Very  comfortable  she  had  found 
the  latter,  all  these  twenty  years,  despite  its 
sober  quietness.  Very  pleasant  it  had  been  to 
grow  up  in  it,  to  assume  one  by  one  little 
housewifely  cares,  as  a  daughter  might,  and 
finally  to  find  herself  mistress,  with  undisputed 
sway  over  all  things  in-doors,  and  not  a  little 
influence  in  out-door  affairs.  Yes,  the  home 
was  certainly  a  dear  and  pleasant  one.  She 
loved  it  well.  And  Uncle  Enos's  heart — well, 
it  seemed  to  her  a  good  one  in  its  way.  He 
cared  for  her,  of  course,  in  his  own  staid 
fashion.  She  did  not  think  it  was  in  Uncle 
Enos  to  love  anyone  very  enthusiastically, 
perhaps.  And  Abner  was  as  like  him  in  most 
ways  as  son  could  be  like  father.  Abner  was 
younger  and  quicker  to  comprehend,  of  course. 
He  had  his  own  ways,  quite  unlike  those  of 
any  other  whom  Nannie  had  ever  seen.  He 
was  very  thoughtful  of  her  comfort ;  very  care 
ful  that  she  should  not  overwork.  He  studied 
with  her,  history  and  literature  and  botany 


220  UNDER    FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

and  mineralogy  and  music.  He  read  the 
papers  to  her,  and  talked  over  their  contents. 
He  helped  her  care  for  her  plants,  and  got  her 
new,  rare  ones.  He  brought  her  dainty  trifles, 
new  music  and  late  books,  whenever  he  went 
to  town.  Nannie  did  not  like  to  think  what 
life  might  be  without  Abner — he  was  so  good 
and  kind  and  cousinly,  though  he  wasn't  really 
her  cousin,  nor  a  relative  at  all.  He  was 
Uncle  Enos's  son  by  his  first  wife  ;  she,  the 
niece  of  the  second  Mrs.  Carr. 

It  was  funny,  Nannie  mused,  that  Abner 
didn't  think  they  ought  to  keep  Thanksgiving 
by  having  their  relatives  with  them.  There 
were  just  three  or  four  families  who  would 
make  such  a  nice  little  company.  Aunt  Nancy 
and  Uncle  and  Aunt  Guyson,  with  Nell  and 
Frank,  and  Aunt  Kate  and  Ned.  Ned  was 
home  this  year,  which  didn't  happen  always, 
and  he  would  come  of  course.  Nannie  knew 
he  would  be  glad  to,  for  he  had  walked  home 
from  church  with  her  only  the  night  before, 
and  he  had  said  that  the  country  was  lonely, 
or  that  their  farm  was.  He  hoped  it  might 
not  always  be. 

Nannie  had  not  cared  to  consider  what  he 
meant,  but  she  would  have  liked  him  to  come 
to  their  house  for  Thanksgiving.  That  would 
make  things  a  little  less  lonesome  for  him. 


ABNER'S  WAY.  221 

There  were  steps  and  voices  outside,  and 
Nannie  remembered  in  a  panic  that  the  roll- 
way  was  open.  She  would  have  fled  upstairs, 
but  she  caught  the  mention  of  her  name.  It 
was  Abner's  voice  first  : 

"Good  weather  for  Thanksgiving,  isn't  it,  if 
it  only  holds.  Father,  I  don't  know  but  we 
ought  to  invite  the  folks  over,  and  make  Thanks 
giving  ourselves  this  year,  Uncle  Joe  had  us 
all  last  year,  and  it's  our  turn,  and  I  think 
Nannie  would  like  it." 

"She  hasn't  said  anything  about  it  to  me.  I 
thought  maybe  'twould  make  too  many  chores 
for  her,"  returned  the  elder  man. 

"No,  nor  to  me,  but  I  think  she'd  like  it,  and 
I  don't  believe  she'd  mind  the  extra  work." 

"Might  ask  her,  anyway,"  said  Uncle  Enos. 
"Well,  I'd  like  to  see  our  folks  together  again, 
I  believe,  what's  left,  after  all,  and  at  my  own 
table,  too.  And  maybe  it  is  dull  for  Nannie 
sometimes,  though  you  seem  to  do  what  you 
can  for  her,  Abner." 

AY  hat  Abner  said  Nannie  never  knew.  She 
took  advantage  of  the  clock's  striking  to  run 
away  upstairs.  She  was  not  surprised  when 
Uncle  Enoa  proposed,  at  noon,  a  Thanksgiving 
family  party,  and  she  assented  very  readily, 
declaring,  as  Abner  had  foreseen,  that  she 


222  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

shouldn't  mind  the  work,  especially  with  Ann 
Chantry  to  help  during  the  days  that  inter 
vened. 

She  was  surprised,  however,  at  Abner's 
thoughtful  kindness  for  her,  used  as  she  was 
to  it.  She  wondered  anew  at  the  ways  he  found 
to  help  her.  She  set  it  down  once  more  to 
"Abner's  way."  For  that  "way"  included,  she 
had  found,  a  marvellous,  protecting  tenderness, 
as  unobtrusive  as  sunshine.  It  was  very  good 
in  a  busy  time,  too.  And  on  the  strength  of 
it  she  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded  to  go 
with  Uncle  Enos  next  morning  to  invite  their 
guests.  It  was  a  delightful  drive,  and  Uncle 
Enos  was  the  best  of  company.  If  she  had 
ever  thought  him  cold  or  distant  she  forgot  it 
that  day.  Once  only  he  pained  her. 

"I  suppose  it  is  lonely  for  young  folks  here 
at  the  farm,"  he  said,  "and  especially  women 
folk.  We're  so  contented  always,  Nannie, 
we  haven't  thought,  or  I  haven't,  that  you  might 
be  getting  lonely.  You  could  go  to  the  city 
for  a  good  long  visit  this  winter.  Your  Aunt 
Letty  would  delight  to  have  you  with  her ;  and 
you  could  go  to  school  then,  if  you  like,  or 
anywhere  else." 

But  Nannie  cried  out  against  it.  Kind  as 
the  words  were,  they  somehow  hurt  her  cruelly. 


ABNER'S  WAY.  223 

Didn't  she  belong  at  the  iarm?  Leaving  it  or 
them  had  not  entered  her  mind.  Was  not  her 
place  there  with  them?  She  did  not  say  this, 
of  course,  but  her  heart  was  sore  at  the  thought. 

Their  friends  were  easily  persuaded  to  come 
for  Thanksgiving  dinner  with  them  at  the  farm. 
Ned  and  his  mother  lived  on  another  road,  and 
were  last  to  be  visited.  It  was  ten  o'clock  as 
they  drove  up  the,  lane. 

"I'm  terrible  thirsty,"  said  Uncle  Enos,  as 
he  returned  his  massive  silver  watch  to  his 
pocket.  "If  you  don't  mind  sitting  in  the 
wagon  a  few  minutes,  there's  a  cold  spring 
over  here  in  the  meadow  that  I'd  like  to  get  a 
drink  from,  as  I  used  to  when  I  was  a  boy. 
We're  so  near  the  house  you  won't  be  afraid, 
and  you  can  go  in  without  me  if  you  will." 

But  Nannie  would  rather  stay  in  the  wagon. 
They  had  come  by  a  way  that  was  little  trav 
elled,  and  had  stopped  on  a  side  of  the  house 
that  was  little  used,  save  that  an  outer  kitchen, 
which  Aunt  Kate  seemed  not  yet  to  have  aban 
doned  for  warmer  winter  quarters,  was  on  that 
side.  It  had  no  windows  looking  in  that  direc 
tion,  however.  It  was  unfinished,  and  the 
loosely  fitted  boards  of  its  rough  walls — it  was 
a  "lean-to" — let  out  the  odors  of  the  morning's 
cooking,  and  the  sound  of  voices  as  well.  They 


224         UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

were  distant  and  indistinguishable  at  first,  but 
soon  a  voice  that  «he  knew,  questioned  with 
masculine  impatience  : 

"Breakfast  ready  ?" 

"As  soon  as  I  get  the  butter  and  cream. 
I've  kept  things  hot  for  you,  and'll  have  'em 
on  in  a  minute.  I  didn't  know  just  when  you'd 
be  down.  I  knew  you'd  be  tired  after  yester 
day's  hunting." 

The  last  words  were  almost  lost  in  a  vanish 
ing  diminuendo  as  the  speaker  evidently  hur 
ried  away  to  milk-room  and  pantry  for  the 
missing  articles. 

"No  steak,  of  course  !"  grumbled  the  mascu 
line  voice  again.  Was  this  Ned's  way  ?  "You 
might  try  to  have  something  decent,  seems  to 
me.  I  aint  here  every  day." 

"There's  cold  meat  and  an  omelette.  I  didn't 
know  you'd  care."  Then  even  more  timidly, 
"You're  not  going  out  to-day,  are  you?" 

"I'm  off  for  town  at  noon.  Shan't  be  back 
till  the  last  train  comes  to-night.  What's  up 
now?" 

"Nothing,  only  I  wanted  you  to  see  Lawyer 
Pratt  about  those  notes,  and  we've  got  to  have 
another  deed  made  out,  of  the  south  meadow, 
that  your  father  bought  of  Jones,  you  know. 
They've  straightened  the  road  and  made 


ABNER'S  WAY.  225 

changes  around.  And  I  thought  maybe  we 
could  go  over  to  the  graveyard." 

"Bother  !  I  shan't  go  there,  anyway.  The 
other  things  can  wait.  Or  maybe  you  can 
attend  to  'em.  I  don't  see  why  not." 

Nannie  did  not  catch  the  whole  of  the 
mother's  complaining  protest  of  rheumatic 
pains,  of  work  at  home,  of  inability  to  com 
prehend  and  arrange  those  business  matters, 
and  dislike  to  attempt  it,  for  Uncle  Enos  came 
back  just  then,  and  they  went  around  to  the 
side-door  and  went  in.  Nannie  more  than  sus 
pected  that  Ned  had  not  finished  his  breakfast, 
but  his  manner  betrayed  no  embarrassment  of 
interruption.  He  was  as  attentive  and  genial 
as  ever.  If  she  could  have  but  forgotten  that 
just-heard  conversation,  it  would  have  been  a 
pleasant  call.  As  it  was  Ned  found  it  hard 
to  account  for  her  sudden  coldness,  and  won 
dered  why,  if  she  cared  so  little,  she  took  the 
trouble  to  invite  them  at  all,  or  even  to 
accompany  Uncle  Enos.  But  they  accepted 
the  invitation  notwithstanding. 

What  a  pleasure  after  that  to  go  back  to  the 
farm  !  to  find  Abner  waiting  to  welcome  them 
with  cheery  words,  which  were  no  pretence, 
since  with  them,  Nannie  well  knew,  both  thought 
and  deed  accorded ;  to  find  Ann  Chantry,  on 
11 


226        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

whom  the  neighborhood  relied  for  help  in  emer 
gencies,  there  at  work  already,  and  the  day's 
work  well  under  way.  Just  enough  had  been 
done  to  materially  lighten  Nannie's  burdens, 
yet  not  enough  to  seem  to  encroach  upon  her 
authority  as  mistress  of  affairs.  It  was  always 
so.  That,  too,  was  one  of  Abner's  ways.  And 
there  came  a  sudden  consciousness  of  his  good 
ness — of  his  instinctive  divination  of  her  thought 
and  mood  and  liking,  and  provision  for  them 
all — and  of  all  the  silent  tenderness  which  had 
wrapped  her  like  an  atmosphere  these  many 
years,  of  which,  because  of  its  very  natural 
ness,  she  had  been  unmindful.  Whether  it  was 
his  way  toward  .all  womankind,  or  whether 
there  was  in  it  something  kept  for  her  only, 
Nannie  did  not  try  to  determine. 

The  next  two  days  were  very  happy  ones ; 
so  cheery,  somehow,  that  Nannie  wondered  if 
Thanksgiving  itself  would  be  any  brighter ; 
and  she  questioned  if,  after  all,  the  day  would 
not  have  been  pleasanter  spent  just  by  them 
selves — though  perhaps  they  ought  to  have 
their  relatives — and  said  as  much  to  Abner, 
who  answered  a  little  surprised  : 

"I  did  think  so  at  first,  for  Father's  sake.  It 
reminds  him  so  of  Mother,  you  know,"  he  said, 
gently.  "It  was  their  wedding  day,  and  she 


ABNER'S  WAY.  227 

died,  too,  at  Thanksgiving  time.     But  I  think 
he  was  willing  to  have  the  folks  this  year,"  he 
concluded  more  cheerfully. 
•    "Oh,  Abner  !  I  never  knew  it !" 

It  was  all  she  could  say,  and  he  bade  her 
not  to  mind.  But  she  was  hurt  and  pained 
and  sorry  and  ashamed  all  at  once.  That  was 
the  reason,  then,  why  they  never  kept  Thanks 
giving  with  very  noisy  gladness.  And  she  had 
thought  them  hard  and  close  and  unfeeling. 
Could  she  ever  make  up  for  it?  She  would 
try,  and  all  her  life,  if  they  would  let  her. 
Of  course  she  could  not  say  this  to  Abner — 
then.  There  came  a  time  when  she  could  and 
did,  for  he  asked  her  something  very  like  it. 
It  was  weeks  afterward,  to  be  sure,  but  this 
Thanksgiving  time  helped  to  hasten  it ;  for  it 
was  a  very  cheery  Thanksgiving  party.  All 
the  guests  enjoyed  it,  none  more,  however, 
than  the  three  who  were  not  guests,  but  hosts 
and  hostess.  Perhaps  it  needed  just  the  pres 
ence  of  strangers  to  show  them  how  much  they 
were  to  each  other.  For  it  was  but  a  little 
later,  as  I  said,  that  it  was  decided  that  noth 
ing  but  death  should  part  them — these  three. 
Of  course  the  vows  to  that  effect  were  to  be 
given  and  taken  by  only  two  of  the  household, 
but  the  father  seemed,  somehow,  a  party  to 


228  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

the  compact.  It  was  his  gain  and  joy,  too,  he 
said.  Perhaps  it  was  because  the  younger 
man,  despite  his  proud  consciousness  of  owner 
ship,  was  so  generous  in  his  love.  For  this, 
too,  was  Abner's  Way. 


HER  GIFTS. 


The  late  March  sunshine,  reflected  from 
acres  of  glittering  crust,  lay  in  warm  lines 
along  the  yellow  floor  of  a  long  many-win 
dowed  kitchen.  The  air  within  was  spicy  with 
scents  of  the  Saturday  baking,  sweet  with  the 
odor  from  a  kettle  of  bubbling  sap  fast  chang 
ing  to  maple  syrup,  and  made  fresh  and  woodsy 
by  a  little  breeze  that  came  in  through  the 
open  pantry  window  looking  out  into  the 
wood-yard . 

The  mistress  of  the  kitchen  and  of  the  farm 
house  itself,  though  her  authority  was  so  mild 
and  unobtrusive  that  you  would  hardly  think 
of  giving  her  the  title,  stood  at  her  plant- 
stand,  watering-pot  in  hand. 

She  performed  her  task  with  loving  faithful 
ness,  but  there  was  an  absent  look  in  her  eyes 
as  she  wiped  the  ivy  leaves,  blew  some  imag 
inary  dust  from  the  opening  calla,  and  pinched 


230  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

the  yellowing  leaves  from  the  sturdy  lemon 
geranium.  And  it  was  almost  mechanically 
that  she  bent  to  examine  the  tiny  shoots  of 
the  early  tomatoes  and  cucumbers  in  the  long 
window  boxes. 

"Doing  well,  all  of  them,"  she  said,  in  the 
tone  of  one  used  to  having  herself  for  sole  lis 
tener.  "Let  me  see,  'twas  the  first  day  of  the 
month  I  planted  'em.  Yes,  they  have  grown 
amazingly.  To-day's  only — why,"  with  a 
glance  at  the  calendar — "it's  the  eighteenth. 
Just  a  week  more  !" 

The  preoccupied  look  was  gone  now. 

"I  believe,"  she  went  on,  "I'll  sweep  them 
two  back  chambers  to-day,  and  be  that  much 
beforehand.  I  shall  have  just  about  time 
enough  before  dinner.  There's  two  pies  in 
the  oven  I  shall  have  to  take  out,  though, 
before  I  go  up  chamber.  Well,  then  !" 

She  gave  a  peep  at  the  slowly  browning 
pies,  then  turned  to  a  tall  cupboard  in  the 
corner  and  took  down  a  great  china  bowl 
quaintly  flowered.  This  she  set  carefully  down 
upon  the  table,  which  was  partially  spread  for 
dinner,  and  seated  herself  before  it,  drawing 
towards  her,  as  she  did  so,  the  sugar-bowl. 
She  then  measured  out  carefully  twenty-one 
teaspoonfuls  of  sugar,  which  she  put  into  the 


HER    GIFTS.  231 

flowered  bowl,  looking  into  it  with  satisfaction 
as  she  did  so. 

"I  might  have  taken  a  tea-cup  and  saved 
time,"  she  said,  "but  it  seems  a  little  honester 
to  take  it  out  with  the  teaspoon  just  as  if  I 
wanted  it  for  my  tea.  And  I  needn't  have 
stinted  myself  to  get  it,  either,  I  don't  s'pose. 
Likely  enough  Asa  wrould  ha'  been  willing  as 
willing.  But  I  don't  w^ant  to  make  an  offering 
of  other  folks's  things,  especially  when  its 
unbeknownst  to  'em  ;  and  it  hain't  hurt  me,  a 
woman  of  sixty-five,  to  drink  my  tea  without 
sweetening  for  a  spell.  I  won't  pretend  I  like 
it  better  so,  but  I'm  glad  I  done  it.  There, 
that  makes  eight  cupfuls,  sure,  and  the  butter's 
mine  without  reckonin'.  Now  if  my  biddies 
only  do  well  by  me  this  next  week  !  I  shall 
want  quite  a  lot  of  eggs  beside  wThat  I  put  into 
cake. 

"I  guess  one — two — three's  the  most  reliable 
rule  for  me,  and  it  divides  up  well  too.  I  shall 
want  a  plenty  of  hearts  and  rounds  for  the 
children.  Poor  things!  What  would  Abby 
Richardson  ha'  said  to  see  her  own  grandchil 
dren  made  as  little  of  as  they  have  been  this 
last  three  years  ?  And  their  stepmother's  as 
touchy  as  can  be  about  things,  too. 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  before  Satur 
day  ;  but  I  can't,  only  fix  the  baskets  and  get 


232  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

the  other  little  presents  ready.  I  hope  Grand 
ma  Baker  will  like  the  pattern  of  that  print  I've 
got  for  her,  and  that  Marm  Norcross,  up  at  the 
Farm,  won't  think  black  and  white's  too  sober 
for  a  shoulder  shawl.  Twas  all  they  had,  but 
sometimes  those  poor-house  folks  is  the  most 
particular  of  all .  Poor  things  !  I  suppose  it's 
all  they  can  do. 

"I  know  Auntie  Stetson  will  be  real  well 
pleased  with  that  big-print  Bible.  It's  the  best 
one  I  could  find  that  I  could  anyways  seem  to 
afford,  and  I  hope  she'll  live  to  take  lots  of 
comfort  with  it.  And  I've  got  a  little  more 
shopping  to  do  yet,  if  I  can  manage  it. 

"There,  them  pies  are  done,  and  it's  eleven 
o'clock,  though  I  guess  this  clock  is  a  half-hour 
ahead.  Lucy  Hurlburt,  you  must  step  around 
if  you  mean  to  get  red  up  afore  dinner !" 

She  replaced  the  bowl  carefully,  put  away 
the  results  of  her  baking,  took  her  broom  and 
dustpan,  and  went  briskly  up  the  winding 
stairs,  looking  in  her  scant  gingham  dress,  wide 
apron,  and  frilled  sweeping-cap,  under  which 
a  pair  of  bright,  dark  eyes  peered,  like  the 
traditional  old  woman  who  "swept  the  cobwebs 
out  of  the  sky." 

She  worked  with  an  energy  you  would  hardly 
have  given  her  credit  for,  singing  meanwhile 


HER    GIFTS.  233 

snatches  of  sweet  old  hymns,  some  of  them 
long  ago  fallen  into  disuse,  some  as  dear  to  this 
generation  as  to  those  in  whose  ears  they  were 
first  sung.  Her  task  was  not  a  long  one,  and 
the  last  firm  strokes  of  her  broom  made  a  not 
unseemly  accompaniment  to  the  low,  fervent 
strains  of 

"Sun  of  my  soul,  thou  Saviour  dear." 

It  was  evidently  a  favorite,  and  she  sang  all 
the  verses  through,  though  the  sweeping  was 
finished  before  the  singing  was.  But  it  was 
not  yet  twelve,  even  by  the  kitchen  clock 
forced  against  its  will  to  "take  time  by  the 
forelock,"  when  she  emptied  the  contents  of 
her  dustpan  into  the  kitchen  stove,  and  after  a 
reassuring  glance  into  the  steaming  stew-kettle 
which  betokened  dinner,  sat  down  for  a  few 
minutes'  rest  before  completing  her  prepara 
tions  for  the  savory  meal. 

"Almost  everybody  keeps  Christmas  after  a 
fashion,"  she  soliloquized ;  "and  sometimes  in 
a  good  sort  of  fashion,  too.  But  Easter,  that 
makes  sure  all  that  Christmas  brings,  and 
brings  so  much  comfort  of  its  own  besides,  es 
pecially  to  folks  that  are  old,  or  sick,  or  lone 
some,  missin'  the  ones  that  ain't  with  us;  and 
there's  a  good  many  of  that  kind  of  us  in  the 
world.  Easter  somehow  gets  passed  over  with 


234  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

extra  flowers  and  music  in  churches,  and  maybe 
a  sermon  that  the  folks  that  needs  it  most  can't 
get  there  to  hear.  I  can't  think  the  Lord  is 
real  pleased  to  have  it  so. 

"And  then,"  she  resumed,  "for  all  that  Eas 
ter  calls  to  mind  so  much  that's  precious,  and 
the  real  comfort  and  strength  of  it  ain't  to  be 
told  by  most  of  us,  I  rather  imagine  that  a 
good  many  folks  that's  troubled  and  sorrowful, 
even  with  actual  griefs,  have  to  work  out  their 
own  peace  and  consolation,  if  they  ever  have 
any,  same  as  they  do  their  salvation. 

"I  should  ache  the  worst  way  if  I  couldn't  do 
something  on  Easter  day  that  I  think  maybe 
my  dear  ones  would  ha'  done  or  like  to  have 
me  do  for  somebody  they  set  store  by  when 
they  was  here." 

A  voice  interrupted  her  soliloquy  here,  that 
of  Asa  bringing  a  last  load  of  "light  birch" 
from  the  wood-lot.  She  saw  him  bring  his 
sled  into  position  for  unloading,  and  drop  the 
thills  as  he  freed  old  Jerry  from  the  traces, 
an  act  which  was  always  to  her,  accustomed 
to  estimate  almost  to  a  minute  the  time 
required  for  each  item  of  the  "chores"  indoors 
and  out,  a  signal  to  place  the  dinner  on  the 
table  ;  and  she  rose  now,  a  strain  of  one  of 
the  hymns  she  had  been  singing  coming  invol 
untarily  to  her  lips. 


HER   GIFTS.  235 

Six  days  later  at  the  same  hour  she  sat  in 
the  same  chair,  lingering  to  watch  an  inter 
view  in  the  yard  at  the  side  of  the  house.  A 
sleigh  with  a  single  occupant,  who  had  reined 
in  his  steaming  horse  at  the  Hurlburt  home 
stead  on  some  important  errand,  evidently, 
now  seemed  waiting  for  Asa's  answer. 

"He's  coming  into  the  house.  I'm  doubtful 
if  it  ain't  bad  news  of  some  sort,*'  she  mur 
mured,  rising  to  meet  her  brother  at  the  door. 

"It's  Jabez  Pearson  over  from  the  Forks," 
he  said.  "Mother  Purdy's  been  havin'  conges 
tion,  and  she's  got  a  relapse  just  as  they 
thought  she  was  out  of  danger.  The  woman 
that  was  takin'  care  of  her  was  called  home  by 
sickness,  and  they  hain't  got  nobody  to  look 
to.  Most  everybody  round  there's  been  sick 
and  kind  o'  pindlin'  now,  he  says.  So  they 
thought  they'd  see  if  you  wouldn't  come  over 
and  spell  'em  a  day  or  two." 

Miss  Lucy's  face  fell  and  Asa  went  on  : 

"I  don't  s'pose  you  need  go  unless  you  feel 
to.  An'  I  don't  think  you  be  very  well  able. 
He's  on  his  way  to  the  lower  village  to  get  Dr. 
Stearns.  They  thought  'twould  be  best  for 
him  to  see  her.  And  he  says,  if  you  don't  feel 
like  goin',  he'll  try  to  get  Jane  Martin  to  go 
over.  Or  he'll  call  for  you  when  he  goes  back 
along." 


236        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

By  this  time  our  friend's  mind  was  made  up. 
"Tell  him  I'll  be  ready,"  she  said.  "And,  Asa, 
you'd  better  come  in  to  your  dinner  now.  I 
shall  want  to  get  well  red  up  to  leave  things." 

The  next  two  hours  were  busy  ones,  yet  not 
too  full  to  leave  room  for  real  and  grievous  dis 
appointment.  The  day  following  she  had 
planned  to  take  almost  entire  for  the  carrying 
out  of  her  cherished  plans,  which  she  had  hoped 
also  to  have  set  forward  that  very  afternoon. 

"And  these  two  days  are  all  there  is.  If  I'd 
ha'  known  I  could  ha'  had  things  ready,  most 
all  of  'em  ;  and  what  I  couldn't  get  Jabez  to 
carry  round  I  could  send  afterwards.  It  doesn't 
seem  hardly  right  after  all  I've  done.  And  I 
s'pose  Jane  would  have  gone,  and  done  wrell 
enough  ;  leastwise,  they'd  never  know  the  differ 
ence.  But  I  know  Jane's  apt  to  be  careless, 
and  she  ain't  used  to  sickness  either,  of  that 
kind.  I  don't  see  but  it  seems  to  be  for  me  to 
do.  Maybe,"  with  a  little  smile,  "my  Easter 
work  ain't  just  what  I  thought  it  was,  after  all. 
And,"  while  the  smile  gave  place  to.  a  sweet 
seriousness,  "it  is  ourselves  that  we  are  to  give 
first  and  chief,  rby  the  will  of  the  Lord.'  It's 
something  to  have  Him  willing  to  show  us  how." 

She  had  hardly  heard  of  Good  Friday,  and 
had  indeed  not  remembered  that  that  day  was 


HER    GIFTS.  237 

the  anniversary  of  the  sacrifice  in  which  she 
believed  so  devoutly.  But  I  am  sure  the  spirit 
of  the  day  was  in  her  heart  as  she  went  about 
her  hasty  preparations. 

So  "beforehand"  was  she  with  her  house 
keeping — this  week  even  more  so  than  usual — 
and  in  such  spotless  order  was  the  house  kept 
from  day  to  day,  that  there  was  really  time  at 
last  to  tie  and  mark  the  parcels  whose  contents 
were  ready  to  fill  two  baskets  for  two  or  three 
sick  and  aged  women  whom  she  could  not  bear 
to  slight,  and  after  some  hesitation  to  cut  some 
of  her  choicest  flowers  to  carry  with  a  box  of 
honey  and  a  jar  of  her  best  peach-preserves  to 
Cousin  Martha.  "I  guess  they'll  be  needed 
there  as  much  as  anywhere,"  she  reflected, 
"Martha  never  does  have  the  best  o'  luck  with 
her  canned  things,  and  she's  no  hand  with 
plants,  either.  And  it  seems  to  be  her  I'm  set 
to  do  for  just  now." 

A  belief  which  was  much  strengthened  by 
the  condition  of  things  at  the  Purdy  homestead 
when  she  arrived  there  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Mrs.  Martha  Purdy  was  a  far-away  cousin  of 
the  Hurlburts,  and  not  a  favorite  with  either  of 
them ,  though  they  seldom  expressed  the  feel 
ing,  even  to  each  other. 

It  wras  no  surprise  to  Miss  Hurlbut  to  find 
the  house  in  a  mild  state  of  chaos,  the  children 


238  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

untidy,  the  pantry  ill  supplied — though  James 
Purdy  was  in  truth  "a  good  provider,"  in  the 
homely  speech  of  the  countryside — and  the 
sick  woman  herself  in  her  cheerless  north  bed 
room  with  its  far  from  dainty  appointments, 
forlorn  and  unhopeful  as  well  as  seriously  ill. 

The  verdict  of  Dr.  Stearns,  who  followed 
close  upon  their  own  arrival,  was,  however, 
really  encouraging.  Perhaps  the  more  so  be 
cause  he  knew  the  "good  care"  he  insisted  on 
was  sure  to  be  given  during  Miss  Hurlburf  s 
stay,  and  that  the  better  order  of  things  she 
would  surely  bring  about  would  be  likely  to 
last  until  his  patient  was  convalescent,  and 
when  the  momentum  of  the  disease  was  spent 
it  would  not  so  much  matter.  And,  indeed, 
he  was  not  out  of  sight  before  Miss  Lucy  had 
begun  the  mild  revolution  that  must  precede 
her  own  benignant  reign,  making  Mrs.  Purdy 
comfortable  with  soothing  remedies  and  well 
arranged  pillows  and  reassuring  words  and  per 
fectly  made  gruel ;  then  while  she  slept  steal 
ing  away  into  the  kitchen  to  bake  a  tin  of  soda 
biscuit  and  another  of  gingerbread,  and  pre 
pare  a  "raising  of  white  bread"  for  the  family 
table,  leaving  affairs  there  so  that  hffie,  a  girl 
of  fifteen,  and,  as  Miss  Hurlburt  mentally  con 
cluded,  "real  willin',  if  anyone  could  take  hold 


HER    GIFTS.  239 

with  her  or  even  show  her  about  things  a  little," 
could  carry  them  forward  easily  toward  an  in 
viting  meal.  "For  I  don't  want  'em  all  sick," 
Miss  Lucy  said  to  herself. 

She  did  not  find  much  opportunity  for  solilo 
quy  here,  however,  except  such  reflection  as 
Avould  suffice  to  shape  her  plans  for  immediate 
services.  But  there  was  time  to  wonder  in  the 
night  watches  if  Asa  "would  carry  those  things 
right  away  after  dinner,  or  towards  night.  I 
told  him,  in  the  afternoon,  if  I  didn't  come. 
And  there's  no  prospect  of  my  getting  back 
to-morrow.  And  I  guess  it's  just  as  well.  I 
might  be  mean  enough  to  go  if  there  was  a 
good  chance,  and  Martha  was  doing  well,  and 
the  nurse  came  back  ;  and,  however  things  go, 
there's  one  day's  work  for  me  here.  I'm  sure 
o'  that." 

The  Saturday  was  a  busy  day,  though  she 
got  little  sleep  the  preceding  night  to  prepare 
her  for  its  endeavors.  It  was  such  a  satisfac 
tion,  however,  at  nightfall  to  see  the  family 
rooms  clean  and  tidy,  the  pantry  well  replen 
ished,  Mrs.  Purdy  comfortably  settled  in  a 
clean  spare  bed  in  a  snug  south  bedroom  off 
the  well  warmed  sitting-room  instead  of  open 
ing  into  the  often  noisy  kitchen,  and  so  far 
lifted  out  of  her  despondency  that  she  could 


240  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

say  gratefully,  "I  shall  get  well  fast  here,  I 
know,"  while  the  newly  developed  energy  of 
the  daughters  and  the  contentment  of  the  hus 
band  were  hardly  less  promising,  that  Miss 
Hurlburt  well  nigh  forgot  her  own  unusual 
exertions  and  even  her  aching  head  and  limbs 
as  she  looked  around  her. 

In  the  early  evening  the  nurse  returned,  and 
Miss  Lucy  realized  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that 
her  own  "stent"  was  done,  though  it  was  not 
till  late  noon  of  the  next  day  that  she  entered 
her  own  door.  It  was  too  late  then  for  the 
Easter  service  she  had  been  anticipating  so 
long,  too  late  to  send  her  flowers  for  the  pul 
pit,  or  even  to  brighten  one  or  two  sick  rooms 
she  had  remembered.  Indeed,  she  could  only 
look  around  the  familiar  rooms,  stroke  her 
cat,  caress  her  plants,  look  into  the  closet 
where  her  parcels  had  been — empty  now,  they 
had  been  delivered — and  greet  Asa  just  come 
from  meeting,  before  she  had  to  surrender  to 
the  blinding  headache  which  had  been  gather 
ing,  and  lie  for  some  hours  in  her  own  room, 
dumb  with  the  pain.  And  yet  not  unhappy, 
for  the  day's  peace  seemed  to  infold  her  even 
then.  And  at  sunset  the  pain  grew  stiller  and 
she  came  feebly  out  to  her  own  chair. 

"Better,  are  ye?"  said  Asa,  coming  in. 
"That's  good  !  It's  ben  pretty  lonesome  here 


HER    GIFTS.  241 

• 

lately  for  me  and  the  cat.  What  time  I  was 
here  I  went  round  with  your  things,  and  every 
body  was  mighty  pleased.  What  made  you 
think  o'  so  much?  Then  I  went  over  to  see 
Squire  Perkins,  I  had  some  business  with  him. 
Fact  is,  Lucy,  I've  changed  my  will.  I  thought 
it  over,  and  I  concluded  I  could  afford  to  give 
up  a  little,  so  I  left  the  Stebbins  place  to  Josiah. 
And  then,  seein'  as  it  might  never  do  him  any 
good  so,  I  went  around  and  talked  things  over 
with  him,  and  we  made  a  little  bargain,  not  a 
bad  one  for  him  anyhow,  and  he's  going  to  live 
on't  till  we  can  be  better  suited,  one  or  both 
of  us,"  and  the  old  man  smiled  with  a  grim 
satisfaction. 

"O  Asa,"  said  his  sister,  "I  can't  believe  it !" 
"It's  true,  though,"  he  answered.  "I  thought 
maybe  ye'd  like  it,"  he  went  on  shyly.  "Fact 
I  don't  know's  I  should  a'  done  it,  leastways 
just  now,  if  you  hadn't  set  me  thinkin'.  Though 
'twould  a'  ben  as  well,  like  enough,  if  it  had 
come  about  quite  a  spell  ago.  But  bygones 
is  bygones,  we've  both  agreed,"  Asa  said  in 
unusual  confidence,  then  backed  sl^ly  out  of 
the  room  on  a  pretext  of  belated  chores. 

Miss  Lucy  sat  quite  still  and  almost  raptur 
ously  happy.  The  transaction  of  which  her 
brother  had  just  told  her  implied  not  only  the 


242        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

adjustment  of  an  old  dispute  begun  long  ago 
in  a  difference  that  had  almost  amounted  to  a 
quarrel  between  their  half-brother  Josiah  and 
himself;  it  involved  a  generosity  on  Asa's  part 
that  gave  far  more  than  the  other  had,  perhaps 
with  justice,  asked  for  vainly  many  years  be 
fore,  and,  failing  to  obtain,  had  been  as  a 
stranger  in  the  old  home  ever  since.  It  had 
been  the  skeleton  in  Miss  Luc)r"s  closet  all  this 
time,  and  had  often  made  her  kindest  deeds 
seem  to  herself  but  a  pretense  and  mockery. 
Now  how  different  all  would  be  ! 

"And  Josiah's  wife's  brother  'tis  that's  those 
children's  father.  She's  their  own  aunt,  with 
not  a  chick  or  child  of  her  own,  and  she  thinks 
a  sight  of  'em.  Well  now,  they'll  be  at  the 
farm  a  good  share  of  their  time,  and  not  want 
for  anything,  I'm  pretty  sure.  That's  more 
than  the  cakes  I  fretted  over,  sure.  We  never 
know  what  the  Lord  of  Easter  is  going  to  do 
with  the  gifts  we  try  to  bring  him.  To  think 
of  what  we  put  in  and  what  comes  up  out  of  it 
makes  anyone  think  it's  a  little  bit  of  the  Resur 
rection  come  already  !" 


WHY  NOT? 


Penn  Gorman's  work  basket  was  empty. 
It  stood  beside  her  in  one  of  the  sunny  win 
dows  of  their  dainty  sitting-room,  with  not  so 
much  as  a  torn  handkerchief  or  frayed-out 
collar  .visible  within  it.  And  she,  an  earnest- 
looking,  bright-eyed  woman  somewhere  be 
tween  youth  and  middle-age — just  where,  some 
of  her  dearest  friends  did  not  know  or  care — 
twirled  the  last  pair  of  neatly  darned  stock 
ings  into  a  comely  roll,  and  tossed  it  across 
the  room  to  keep  company  with  a  little  pile  of 
clothing,  freshly  aired  and  waiting  transferal 
to  bureau  and  closet. 

"Two  o'clock  of  a  Tuesday  afternoon,  and 
the  very  last  stitch  of  mending  done,"  she  said 
impatiently.  "And  I've  no  earthly  thing  to 
make  or  mend,  or  alter.  Is  it  any  wonder  I 
feel  wickedly  idle  ?  Of  course  there  are  things 
we  need  if  one  had  money  to  shop — shirts  for 


244  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

Prescott,  and  some  winter  sheets,  and  a  table 
cloth  or  two." 

"But  we  are  in  no  special  need,"  said  the 
other  occupant  of  the  room,  a  sweet-faced, 
fragile  woman,  in  an  invalid's  chair.  A  crutch 
leaned  against  the  chair's  arm,  and  the  hands 
were  warped  and  twisted  with  rheumatism. 
They  let  fall,  now,  for  a  moment,  the  gray 
sock  she  was  knitting.  "And  why  can't  you 
read,  or  paint,  or  rest?  It's  lawful  leisure, 
Penn,  and  that  never  hurt  anybody.  People 
don't  generally  have  enough  of  it." 

"Some  people,  and  sometimes.  But  it's  like 
a  good  many  other  delightful  things— to  be 
appreciated  only  at  intervals,  with  plenty  of 
the  other  thing  between.  Really,  with  Pres- 
cott's  busy  time  over,  and  the  fall  work  so  well 
done,  with  the  long  evenings  and  stormy  days 
before  us,  I  feel  as  though  I  were  going  to  be 
lawlessly,  inanely,  drearily  idle,  unless  I  can 
find  some  hitherto  neglected  duty  under  my 
nose,  so  to  speak.  If  there  were  a  Woman's 
Exchange  within  a  hundred  miles,  or  any  de 
mand  anywhere  for  such  things,  I'd  go  to  doing 
fancy-work,  though  it  isn't  in  my  line,  and  I 
don't  half  like  it.  Or  if  I  could  get  copying  ! 
'Twould  be  so  nice  to  make  these  unoccupied 
hours  yield  me  a  few  dollars  of  even  dimes ! 


WHY   NOT?  245 

You  see  mother  dear,  it  would  be  so  good  to 
have  just  a  little  more  money  to  use  and  give — 
especially  the  latter — there  are  so  many  ways  !" 

"You  miss  your  salary,"  and  the  mother 
sighed.  She  felt  sometimes  her  helplessness — 
this  "prisoner  of  the  Lord."  These  years  of 
weakness  and  pain  followed  close  on  years  that 
had  been  crowded  with  activities. 

"Ah,  yes,"  returned  the  other  lightly,  "and 
a  good  many  other  things  that  I  had  away  from 
home  and  teaching.  The  cold  mornings  and 
going  but  in  all  weathers,  and  working  at 
night ;  and  being  among  strangers  ;  and  eat 
ing  boarding-house  fare,  and  the  dyspepsia  it 
created  !  You  know  I'd  rather  be  here,  with 
you.  But,  as  I  said,  though  we've  all  we  need, 
I  should  like  to  have  a  little  more  money  to 
spend  and  give.  I'd  like  to  do  more  in  the 
church,  for  instance.  There's  so  much  needed, 
and  I'm  afraid  Mr.  Oaks's  salary  runs  behind 
too  often.  And  the  collections  aren't  what  they 
ought  to  be,  for  missions  and  other  things,  nor 
maybe  the  interest,  either.  I  suppose  the 
people  'do  and  give  all  they  can,  just  as  we  do. 
Though,  indeed,  some  of  the  ladies  that  could 
perhaps  do  a  little  more,  are  seldom  out  save 
Sundays,  not  always  then.  They  are  so  busy 
with  their  housekeeping  and  their  babies,  and 


246  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

the  children  in  school.  They  have  enough  to 
do,  you  see.  But  some  of  us  have  so  much 
more  time  than  money,  I  wish  it  were  like 
Bible  times,  when  the  'women  that  were  wise 
hearted  did  spin  with  their  hands'  for  the  furn 
ishings  of  the  tabernacle.  Our  little  church  is 
getting  so  shabby  inside  !  And  I  don't  wonder 
women  are  driven  to  having  fairs  and  festivals 
and  the  like,  to  raise  church-funds ;  though  I 
am  glad  they've  given  up  such  follies  here.  In 
my  present  state  of  mind,  an  affair  of  that  kind 
would  be  a  great  temptation." 

"Mother,"  she  added,  a  moment  later,  peer 
ing  out  of  the  window,  "I'm  quite  sure  I  see 
Auntie  Graham  coming  down  the  hill,  and  I 
think  she  has  her  big  work  bag  on  her  arm, 
which  means,  that  she's  got  her  patchwork  and 
will  sit  an  hour  or  two  with  you.  So  if  you 
don't  mind,  after  I  give  you  your  glass  of  milk 
I'll  run  over  to  Nina's  for  a  little  while.  And 
I'll  take  my  thimble.  Her  work-basket  won't 
be  empty,  it  never  is ;  and  maybe  I  can  lay 
hold  on  some  of  the  wee  stockings,  or  one  of 
Johnnie's  jackets  or  Madge's  aprons,  while  I 
stay.  You  don't  know  how  those  children  go 
through  their  clothes.  One  would  think  they 
walked  with  their  elbows  and  danced  on  their 
knees." 


WHY   NOT?  247 

Ten  minutes  later,  Penn  sat  in  Mrs.  Nina 
Storer's  dining-room,  where  that  busy  little 
matron  was  vibrating  between  sewing  machine 
and  cradle,  with  occasional  detours  to  the 
kitchen.  The  mending  basket,  as  Penn  had 
predicted,  was  not  empty.  It  stood  even  then 
on  the  table,  crammed  with  torn  trousers,  out- 
at-elbow  jackets,  rent  aprons,  buttonless  waists, 
and  frayed-out  skirts,  for  the  week's  wash  had 
just  come  home  and  been  sorted,  and  the  cloth 
ing  of  eight,  including  five  restless,  romping 
children,  was  represented  therein.  The  stock 
ing  bag  lay  near,  also  full  to  repletion,  while 
the  mistress  of  the  house  was,  as  she  said, 
putting  new  binding  on  the  children's  winter 
skirts,  which  they  must  have  at  once. 

"I'll  clear  away  that  rubbish  in  a  moment, 
Penn,"  she  said.  "Mrs.  McManus  brought  the 
wash  early  this  week." 

But  Penn  laid  detaining  hands  on  bag  and 
basket. 

"Not  yet,  please  !  Why,  Nina,  I'm  suffer 
ing  for  work,  and  I  like  to  mend.  These 
stockings  are  enticing  !  And  if  you  don't  let 
me,  I'll  go  off  and  spend  the  afternoon  at  the 
parsonage.  Maybe  Mrs.  Oaks  will  let  me 
mend  her  baby's  stockings.  I  can  do  them 
beautifully,"  she  added,  whimsically. 


248  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

"I  know  you  can,  and  I  hate  to  see  you 
waste  your  time  over  such  a  bad  lot  as  this. 
The  children  do  wear  out  things  so,  and  I've 
been  so  busy  with  house-cleaning  and  other 
work  that  had  to  be  done,  I've  had  to  leave  it, 
sometimes,  or  some  of  it.  You  see,"  she  went 
on,  "I  just  like  to  do  my  housework,  and  get 
on  nicely  with  what  Mrs.  McManus  does  off 
and  on.  But  when  that's  done,  I  do  need  my 
time  to  rest  and  be  companion  to  the  children 
and  talk  a  bit  with  Loring  when  he  comes 
home,  or  chat  with  a  friend  if  one  comes  in." 

"Indeed  you  do  !" 

"And,  instead  of  that,  I  have  to  toil  on  over 
the  mending  and  plain  sewing,  maybe  till 
eleven  o'clock  or  later.  Evening  is  my  best 
time,  you  know,  with  the  little  ones  safe  in 
bed.  And  I  don't  look  at  a  paper,  though 
Loring  does  read  me  bits.  And  as  for  going 
out  to  prayer-meeting,  or  a  social,  or  the 
ladies'  society,  or  the  mission  circle,  or  to 
make  a  call,  why,  it's  out  of  the  question  !" 

The  conversation  w^andered  then  to  other 
things,  but  a  daring  idea  was  growing  in  Penn's 
brain.  It  came  forth  at  last. 

"Nina,"  she  said,  "why  don't  you  get  a 
mender?" 


WHY    NOT?  249 

"A  mender !  I  never  heard  of  one.  How 
much  are  they  ?  I  don't  believe  we  could  afford 
it?" 

"You  might  hire  one,"  said  Penn  soberly. 

"Hire  one?"  echoed  Mrs.  Storer  again,  and 
Penn's  laugh  rang  out  merrily. 

"O  Nina,  Nina,  you  don't  take  a  bit !  I  mean, 
get  somebody,  get  me,  to  do  your  mending 
every  week.  I'd  be  delighted  to." 

"Really,  dear,"  she  went  on,  as  her  friend  sat 
staring  at  her  in  astonishment,  "I  mean  it,  and 
it  would  help  us  both.  I've  been  wishing  for 
something  to  do  that  would  bring  me  a  little 
mone}',  and  I  feel  so  idle,  our  work  is  so  light, 
and  I  do  enjoy  mending  and  plain  sewing." 

Mrs.  Storer  considered : 

"Why,  if  you  aren't  in  fun  and  would  be  will 
ing,  and  if  it  isn't  imposing  on  you,  I'd  be  en 
raptured  !  The  boys  shall  bring  it  to  you  reg 
ularly  as  soon  as  the  clothes  come  home.  I'm 
a  month  behind  now,  if  you  want  to  do  the 
extra." 

"Indeed  I  do." 

"And  then  there's  about  so  much  every  week." 

And  then  they  settled  to  the  consideration 
of  quantity  and  compensation,  which  details 
were  most  admirably  arranged. 

12 


250  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

"It's  a  beginning,  mother,"  Penn  said,  an 
hour  later,  as  she  recounted  her  plan  in  the 
quiet  room  flooded  now  with  sunset  light.  "Not 
such  a  very  small  one  either.  For  I  plucked 
up  courage  after  that  to  call  at  Mrs.  Adams's 
and  suggest  a  similar  arrangement  in  her  behalf. 
I  knew  she  was  equally  busy,  and  she  proved 
to  be  equally  glad  of  the  help.  These  two  will 
be  about  all  I  can  look  out  for.  But  Susie 
Stone  was  in  there — I  wasn't  sorry,  I  believe 
1  rather  gloried  in  letting  her  know  I  didn't 
feel  it  to  be  beneath  anyone  to  do — and  I  know 
she  got  an  idea  or  two,  also.  She  remarked 
that  some  of  the  ladies  on  their  side  of  the 
village  were  complaining  of  being  unusually 
busy  this  season.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Sue 
found  out  that  she  could  help  them  and  not 
lower  herself  any  either.  She  has  more  time 
than  I.  And  example,  even  that  of  such  a  one 
as  your  humble  daughter,  goes  a  long  way 
sometimes." 

And  so  it  proved.  A  bit  of  wholesome  leaven 
had  been  introduced  into  the  life  of  the  little 
town.  It  worked  in  more  than  one  mind,  and 
stirred  to  activity,  economic  and  benevolent, 
more  than  one  pair  of  hitherto  listless  hands. 
Some  over-tired  mothers  rejoiced  in  lightened 
tasks  and  lessened  burdens  and  larger  leislire, 


WHY   NOT?  251 

and  church  and  society  were  gainers  thereby. 
Unwonted  faces  filled  empty  spaces  in  the 
prayer  meetings,  and  voices  grown  unfamiliar 
in  long  absence,  were  heard  once  more  in 
woman's  meeting  and  mission  circle,  while 
many  a  little,  helpful  gift,  earned  in  these 
humble  ways,  came  into  the  Lord's  treasury, 
or  went  to  aid  His  poor. 

Penn  smiled  contentedly  as  she  saw  it  all, 
and  if  she  did  not  say  aloud,  "I  began  it,"  I 
am  quite  sure  she  thought  it,  and  was  thankful. 


DEACON  FAREWELL'S  THANKSGIVING. 


The  east  was  all  aglow  with  the  approaching 
sunrise.  Far  around  to  the  north  and  south 
the  heralding  color  ran ;  and  up  into  the  azure 
sky,  arching  its  dusky  canopy  over  Smallridge, 
the  waves  of  crimson  went.  The  wind-clouds 
in  the  west,  touched  with  the  hastening  bright 
ness,  rolled  themselves  together  and  disap 
peared.  On  the  distant  and  leafless  woods,  on 
the  scattered  spires,  and  on  the  windows  of  the 
farthest  houses,  the  radiance  fell ;  while  the 
nearer  farms,  and  the  village  between  the  hills, 
lay  in  shadow.  But  in  a  moment  more  the 
sunlight  reached  them,  also ;  and  every  pane 
twinkled,  and  every  leaping  brook  smiled  back 
to  its  smile.  One  by  one  the  morning  lights 
were  put  out,  and  here  and  there  the  smoke  of 
some  belated  fire  began  to  curl  lazily  upward, 
though  most  of  the  chimneys  in  the  region  had 
been  breathing  an  hour  and  more. 


DEACON  FARWELL'S  THANKSGIVING.        253 

Just  as  the  first  level  rays  of  the  sun  reached 
the  panes  of  a  yellow  house  looking  southward 
from  the  eastern  slant  of  the  ridge,  a  little 
woman  within  pulled  up  the  curtain,  and 
looked  out  with  a  face  as  bright  as  the  sun 
shine  itself. 

"Sun's  up,  and  I'll  put  away  that  lamp,"  she 
said  briskly  ;  "and  I  do  believe" — turning  again 
to  the  window  and  then  back  to  the  table 
where  her  husband  sat — "that  we're  goin'  to 
have  beautiful  weather  for  Thanksgiving  and 
maybe  all  the  week.  Now,  ^Nathan,  just  let 
me  give  you  some  more  coffee,  and  you  hurry 
up  with  the  chores,  or  leave  'em  for  Abner ; 
and  you  get  around  early  to  invite  the  folks. 
And  send  up  those  spices  you  forgot,  and  some 
more  raisins  and  citron  from  the  store  as  you 
go  along,  will  you,  Deacon?" 

The  Deacon  looked  blank. 

"I'll  send  up  the  spices,  certain,  'Mandy.  But 
I  thought  we  was  going  to  eat  our  Thanksgiving 
by  ourselves  this  year, — not  havin'  any  own 
folks  near  by,  either  of  us.  Though  if  you 
want  to  ask  your  third  cousins  over  in  Say- 
nood"— 

"ButI  don't,"  interrupted  his  wife,  impatient 
ly.  "Though  I've  no  sort  o'  notion  of  sittin' 
down  to  eat  the  dinner  you've  raised,  and  I'm 


254        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

a  cooking, — and  everything  in  plenty,  and  all 
so  nice, — just  our  two  selves  !  An'  as  for  bavin' 
folks,  why,  we  haven't  any  nearer  than  Michi 
gan, — and  yet  again  we  hev." 

The  Deacon  looked  more  mystified  than  ever. 

"There  was  my  half-brother  over  to  Katurik, 
but  he  died  four  years  ago.  There's  his 
widow"- — 

But  his  wife  interrupted  him  again  : — 

"Only  night  before  last,  in  prayer-meetin', 
Deacon  Farewell,  you  prayed  for  our  afflicted 
brother,  meanin'  Jotham  Swift  that  lost  his 
daughter  six  months  ago,  and  our  brother 
sorely  tried,  which  was  Silas  Wiggin  whose 
barn  burnt  down  with  his  hay,  and  so  on  ;  an' 
for  our  bereaved  sisters,  the  widow  an'  father 
less,  meanin'  Mis  Carr  an'  Susie.  An'  every 
night  you  pray  for  all  our  brethren  and  sisters 
in  the  church  an'  in  the  Lord.  An'  you  talk 
about  the  fathers  an'  mothers  in  Israel,  and 
you  say  some  of  them  converts  that  you've 
pleaded  with,  and  prayed  for,  and  watched 
over,  seem  like  your  own  children" — 

"Spiritually,  yes,  they  do,  spiritually,"  inter 
polated  the  Deacon.  "But  they've  got  homes 
and  family  circles  of  their  own." 

"Not  all  of  'em.  Why,  Deacon,  you  know 
there's  nigh  a  dozen  you  could  think  of,  that  it 


DEACON  FARWELL'S  THANKSGIVING.        255 

would  be  a  real  Christian,  brotherly  kindness 
to  ask  here." 

"They'd  be  welcome,  and  they  know  it, 
'Mandy  ;  but  Thanksgiving's  different." 

"How  do  they  know  it  ?  Not  by  your  tellin' 
'em ;  an'  I  know  Thanksgiving's  different ! 
Why,  Deacon  Farewell,  can't  ye  think  how 
much  good  'twould  do  Mis  Carr  herself,  and 
Susie,  especially,  poor  crippled  thing,  to  have 
a  good,  hearty,  cheery  visit,  and  eat  Thanks 
giving  away  from  home,  and  get  up,  maybe,  a 
little  heart  and  courage  again  ?  An'  you  pass 
'em  the  bread  and  wine  at  the  Lord's  table 
every  month.  And  there's  Moses  Freeman." — 

"But  I'd  have  to  ask  Eben  too." 

"And  what's  to  hinder,  but  your  own  pride 
and  contrariness  ?  An'  you  two  coming  together 
every  communion  Sunday,  and  between  whiles 
holdin'  on  to  that  old,  worn-out  grudge,  or 
pretendin'  to.  For  I  don't  believe  either  of 
you  holds  hardness  now.  And  there's  Ned 
Kirke,  come  here  to  work  in  your  mill,  an'  in 
your  Sunday-school  class  too.  An'  I'm  going 
to  have  two  of  my  class,  Lena  Snell  and 
Maidie  Burns,  anyway.  For  they've  only  their 
boarding  place  to  stay  in,  holidays  an'  all 
days,  an'  the  woman  ain't  over  pleasant  or 
particular.  I've  asked  them." 


256  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

"And  quite  right  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  rejoined 
the  Deacon,  pulling  on  his  mittens.  "Well," 
he  went  on,  "if  that's  all,  I  don't  see  why  we 
shouldn't  have  'em,  an'  I'll  try  to  see  'em  this 
mornin'.  I  s'pose  it's  time." 

"It's  high  time,"  answered  his  wife.  "But 
that  ain't  all.  If  I  was  you,  Nathan,  I'd  make 
up  my  mind  to  ask  over  Hiram  Stirling  and 
Mrs.  Stirling.  They're  all  alone,  same  as  we 
are,  only  their  sons  are  dead  instead  of  off  do 
ing  for  themselves  out  West,  as  ours  are.  And 
the  daughter,  she's  been  in  Californy  these  fif 
teen  years,  and  has  got  to  live  there,  if  any 
where.  You  must  ask  them,  Deacon  !" 

A  pleading  wistfulness  had  crept  into  her 
brisk  voice,  and  she  lifted  her  eyes  beseech 
ingly.  But  his  eyes  were  turned  away,  and  at 
that  moment  came  Mrs.  Mullens  to  help  with 
days'  works  in  the  Thanksgiving  preparations. 
And  the  Deacon,  still  and  astonished,  went 
about  his  chores,  while  the  sharer  of  his  joys 
and  griefs  and  blunders  and  regrets  looked 
after  him  anxiously. 

For  the  daring  little  woman  had  set  her  hus 
band  a  hard  task,  and  she  knew  it ;  but  she 
had  long  ago  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
must  be  done,  and  she  knew  very  well  that  all 
that  made  it  hard  lay  in  the  Deacon's  own 


DEACON  FARWELL'S  THANKSGIVING.        257 

heart.  The  Stirlings,  also,  were  fellow-mem 
bers  with  themselves  in  the  little  church  at 
Smallridge.  They  had  been  life-long  neigh 
bors  and  friends  till  there  had  been  an  unfor 
tunate  disagreement  about  church-matters, 
which  had  ended  in  a  long  and  sullen  estrange 
ment.  Mr.  Stirling  was  hasty,  but  generous 
and  easily  placated.  But  Mr.  Farewell  was 
slow,  self-reliant,  and  determined,  even,  his 
opponent  said,  to  self-righteousness  and  obsti 
nacy,  though  he  was  a  believer  and  a  Deacon, 
yes,  and  an  honest,  earnest  disciple.  And 
after  the  first  heat  of  the  discussion  had  cooled, 
the  Deacon  had  let  fall  certain  cutting  words 
which  he  would  have  given  much  to  recall,  and 
which  Mr.  Stirling  had  felt  then  that  he  could 
never  forgive.  It  had  happened  long  ago,  but 
the  scar  remained,  and  the  wound  still  smarted. 

So  the  little  woman  turned  to  her  work  with 
a  prayer  in  her  heart.  And  all  day  long  amid 
the  chopping  of  mince  meat,  the  grinding  of 
spices,  the  stoning  of  raisins,  the  stirring  of 
pumpkin,  and  sifting  of  squash,  the  grating 
and  pounding  and  beating,  the  flaking  and 
baking  and  frosting, — that  filled  the  old  house 
with  unwonted  noises  and  savory  smells, — she 
was  thinking,  ''If  it  only  could  be." 

The  Deacon's  face  at  dinner  was  inscrutable. 
He  had  been  kept  at  home  all  the  forenoon, 


258        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

first  by  a  brother  deacon,  come  to  discuss  ways 
and  means  and  the  church  debt ;  then  by  a 
fellow  selectman  and  member  of  the  school- 
committee.  The  spices  had  been  sent  for  and 
brought  by  the  hired  man  at  ten  o'clock.  So 
his  wile  could  not  tell  yet  what  he  meant  to  do, 
though  she  was  quite  certain  that,  at  least,  all 
save  the  last-named  of  the  guests  she  was  fain 
to  welcome,  would  be  asked  and  would  come. 
Beyond  that  was  uncertain. 

And,  in  truth,  the  Deacon's  intentions  were 
hardly  clearer  to  himself.  He  set  out  after 
dinner,  driving  slowly,  and  turning  his  horse, 
at  length,  in  the  direction  of  "Freeman's  Lane," 
where  the  brothers  Freeman  lived  together 
and,  save  for  an  old  housekeeper,  alone.  Eben 
was  in  the  yard  as  the  Deacon  drove  up,  and 
his  round,  ruddy,  genial  face  invited  an  over 
ture  of  friendship.  Indeed,  his  hand  was 
stretched  out  in  greeting  and  in  amity  as  soon 
as  Deacon  Farewell's  own,  and  all  lingering 
"hardness"  was  crushed  once  for  all  in  that 
strong  pressure.  And  when  Moses  joined 
them,  a  little  later,  it  seemed  but  natural  to 
proffer  and  second  his  wife's  invitation,  and  as 
easy  for  them  to  accept  it. 

An  hour  later, — so  fast  time  flies  when  one 
gets  to  talking  ! — our  friend  drove  more  swiftly 


DEACON  FARWELL'S  THANKSGIVING.        259 

out  of  the  lane,  shaded  by  leafless  maples,  and 
bordered  with  sere  and  withered  grasses,  and 
turned  downward.  Old  Dobbin  felt  the  brighter 
spirit  behind  him,  betraying  itself  in  the  firmer 
grasp  of  rein,  and  cheerier  "get  up"  of  the 
familiar  voice,  and  trotted  on  briskly.  And, 
indeed,  his  master's  heart  was  far  lighter,  and 
his  sympathies  far  warmer  already. 

And  then  he  stopped  at  Mrs.  Carr's  gate, 
giving,  with  much  more  than  his  usual  hearti 
ness,  his  wife's  message  to  her.  And  he  was 
both  pleased  and  touched  at  the  glad  surprise 
that  lighted  their  faces.  Thence  he  drove 
around  by  the  mill  to  see  Ned  Kirke ;  and 
when  his  errand  there  was  done,  the  afternoon 
was  spent.  So,  telling  himself  that  he  must 
be  at  home  to  see  about  the  chores,  for  Abner 
might  not  have  gotten  home  with  the  young 
cattle  from  the  hill  pasture,  and  putting  by,  as 
well  as  he  could,  the  thought  of  another  call 
he  was  to  make,  he  turned  homeward.  Mrs. 
Farewell  was  watching  for  him,  and  Abner 
came  to  take  the  horse  so  he  could  go  in  imme 
diately. 

"Are  they  coming,  Nathan?"  she  asked,  as 
she  took  his  overcoat,  and  brought  his  slippers. 

"Yes,  that  is,  Mose  and  Eben  are.  They 
wanted  me  to  thank  you  kindly  for  the  invita- 


260  UNDER    FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

tion.  And  the  Widow  Carr  said  she  and  Susie 
would  be  greatly  pleased  to.  And  Ned  Kirke 
will  be  here,  I  expect."  Here  the  Deacon 
stopped,  and  began  to  look  around  for  his 
newspaper. 

"And  Hiram  Stirling?" 
"I — I  didn't  go  up  there  ;  I  hadn't  time." 
He  had  found  his  newspaper  now  and 
entrenched  himself  behind  it.  Mrs.  Farewell 
was  a  wise  woman,  and  she  said  no  more, 
either  then  or  next  morning,  when  he  drove 
away  again,  this  time  to  Amesboro,  on  business, 
he  said.  He  had  been  more  than  usually  silent, 
and  she  knew  not  whether  his  mind  was  yet 
made  up.  "Maybe  it's  a-making,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "an'  I  won't  disturb  it,  for  like  enough 
it's  the  Lord's  own  dealing."  A  kindred 
thought  was  -stirring  in  the  Deacon's  heart, 
and  he  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  glad  or 
sorry  that  he  could  no  longer  be  content  with 
the  old  oft'ense  between  himself  and  his  fellow- 
Christian.  And  his  Bible  had  its  word  for 
him.  This  very  Tuesday  evening,  as  he  read, 
a  verse  had  almost  stopped  his  utterance,  "By 
this  shall  all  men  know  that  ye  are  my  dis 
ciples,  if  ye  have  love  one  to  another."  As 
the  Lord  had  questioned  the  repentant  Peter, 
so  he  seemed  saying  to  this  other  faltering  fol- 


DEACON  FARWELL'S  THANKSGIVING.        261 

lower,  "Lovest  thou  Me?"  And  when  his 
very  soul  cried  out  in  the  answer,  "Yes,  Lord, 
thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee  !"  there  came 
back  the  words  of  the  other  disciple  whom 
Jesus  loved  ;  "He  that  loveth  not  his  brother 
whom  he  hath  seen,  how  can  he  love  God 
whom  he  hath  not  seen  ?" 

All  through  the  wakeful  night  these  words, 
and  such  as  these,  were  repeating  themselves 
to  him,  till  the  morning  found  him  with  a  very 
humble  and  determined  heart,  yearning  after 
reconciliation  with  God  and  man,  and  for  that 
light  of  God's  face  which,  to  the  earnest,  deep- 
hearted  man,  was  more  than  life  and  all  life's 

joys- 
Hiram  Stirling  was  in  his  barn  door  when 

the  Deacon  drove  up.  He  knew  how  much 
those  few  broken  words  of  confession  cost  the 
speaker,  and  he  answered  them  with  words  as 
genuinely  humble.  A  few  minutes  later,  Mrs. 
Stirling,  rolling  out  pie-crust  in  her  kitchen, 
was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  two 
men,  very  plainly  friends  once  more ;  and  still 
more  surprised  to  hear  her  husband  say,  "You 
needn't  hurry  about  your  pies,  Susan,  here's 
the  Deacon  to  say  that  his  wife  wants  us  to 
take  Thanksgiving  dinner  with  them.  We 
can,  can't  we?"  On  to  Amesboro,  now  the 


262        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

Deacon  went,  and  did  his  errand,  and  drove 
home  while  the  stars  were  shining,  for  the 
town  was  many  miles  away,  and  his  business 
had  taken  time.  But  the  way  did  not  seem 
long,  and  the  home-lights  beamed  out  cheerily 
as  he  drove  up  the  yard.  And  the  little 
woman  who  stood  all  day  long,  in  the 
midst  of  her  sweeping  and  dusting,  her  clean 
ing  and  garnishing,  had  been  praying  and 
hoping  and  fearing,  stood  again  in  the  door 
way,  and  knew  that  all  was  right  before  she 
looked  into  his  eyes  or  heard  his  glad  "All's 
well !" 

Ah  !  home  was  very  bright  and  its  peace 
very  sweet  that  night.  The  evening  lesson 
had  no  rebuke,  as  they  read  their  chapter,  but 
only  words  of  benediction.  And  on  the  mor 
row,  when  a  glorious  morning  spread  again  its 
radiant  light  over  Smallridge,  there  was  a 
delightful  stir  of  anticipation  all  through  the 
homely  house,  reaching  even  to  the  stable  and 
carriage  shed.  For  sonic  of  their  guests  must 
be  gone  after,  and,  while  -they  were  about  it, 
they  might  as  well  be  carried  to  church  in 
comfort,  the  Deacon  said,  bidding  Abner  get 
out  horses  and  wagons,  harnesses  and  lap 
robes,  and  sending  him  off  in  one  team  while 
himself  and  wife  set  out  in  the  other. 


DEACON  FARWELL'S  THANKSGIVING.        263 

No  Thanksgiving  service  was  ever  quite  so 
sweet  to  Deacon  Farewell.  In  none  had  he 
ever  joined  so  heartily,  though  his  life  had  had 
its  deliverances,  like  all  of  ours.  Prayer  and 
sermon  and  hymn  were  full  of  benediction, — a 
blessing  with  which  was  mingled  no  regret. 
And  there  came  back  to  him,  with  a  new  mean 
ing,  certain  words  of  Scripture,  about  "the 
sacrifices  of  thanksgiving." 

His  guests  found  him  the  most  genial  of 
hosts,  and  the  saddest  among  them  brightened 
in  the  good  cheer  of  the  homely  feast.  All 
differences  were  forgotten,  with  all  incon 
gruity  ;  and  as  Mrs.  Farewell  watched  her 
husband  drive  away  at  night  with  the  last  load 
of  their  visitors,  she  said  to  herself,  "The  Dea 
con  seems  as  pleased  as  if  he'd  found  a  whole 
family  of  brothers  and  sisters, — an'  I  guess  he 
has  !" 


GRANDMOTHER  MCLEAN'S  VACATION. 


Grandmother  McLean  was  one  of  the  silent 
ones;  a  small,  quiet  woman  with  gentle  eyes 
and  soft  brown  hair,  in  which  each  year  the 
silver  strands  were  a  little  more  thickly  thread 
ed.  So  quiet  was  she  that  few  dreamed  of  the 
strength  and  depth  of  her  nature,  her  endur 
ance,  her  tenderness,  her  self-sacrifice,  her 
faith.  The  unceasing  ministries  and  unfailing 
hopes  of  her  long  life  told  them  all ;  yet  many 
shared  the  willing  services  who  did  not  stop  to 
read  or  respond  to  the  love  that  prompted 
them,  or  to  consider  if  there  were  no  needs  or 
yearnings  of  hers  they  might  help  to  satisfy. 
Seventy  years  ago  and  more,  our  Grandfather 
McLean  had  found  her  in  a  little  village  on  the 
Massachusetts  coast  whither  he  had  gone  on 
some  errand  connected  with  his  business  of 
lumbering,  and  had  straightway  wooed  and  won 
her,  a  pretty,  dainty,  pink-cheeked  maiden  just 


GRANDMOTHER   MCLEAN'S    VACATION.  265 

seventeen.  There  was  only  her  mother  and 
herself,  for  her  father  was  dead,  and  she  the 
only  child  living,  so  when  after  two  or  three 
years  of  married  life  Amos  McLean  wanted 
to  take  his  little  family  to  his  Maine  home, 
a  farm  on  a  river  flowing  seaward  among  the 
inland  hills,  her  mother,  Grandmother  Burritt, 
our  great-grandmother,  sold  her  little  home 
stead  and  came  with  them. 

It  must  have  been  "all  for  love,"  that  hasty 
marriage  which  was  such  a  happy  one,  for  the 
husband  was  his  young  wife's  senior  by  twenty 
years,  and  a  stern  man,  and  a  silent  one  also. 
Almost  as  old  as  Grandmother  Burritt,  he  out 
lived  her  only  a  few  helpless  years.  Mrs. 
Burritt  never  revisited  her  old  home, — in 
those  days  travel  was  slow  and  tedious.  They 
had  journeyed,  when  they  came  to  Maine,  in 
a  covered  wagon,  emigrant-fashion,  with  their 
two  gentle  cows  tied  behind.  If  she  ever 

o 

longed  for  the  old  home-scenes,  none  knew. 
She  was  not  one  to  complain  either.  They 
laid  her  to  rest  in  the  old  burying-ground  by 
the  river,  as  she  had  known  they  must,  though 
there  was  a  vacant  place  for  her  beside  a  lonely 
grave  far  away  in  a  little  cemetery  by  the  sea. 
But  I  think,  perhaps,  she  did  not  long  so 
for  the  sight  and  sound  and  scent  of  the  sea, 


266        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

as  did  our  own  grandmother.  She  had  heard 
its  murmur  in  her  cradle,  had  played  beside  it 
and  with  it,  had  listened  to  it  in  her  musing 
maidenhood.  There,  to  the  sound  of  its  waves, 
she  had  heard  lover's  pledges  and  taken 
marriage-vows.  Its  lullabies  had  mingled 
with  her  own  as  she  had  sung  her  first-born  to 
sleep,  and  they  sounded  still  beside  him  in  her 
fancy,  for  she  had  left  a  little  grave  in  that 
seaside  cemetery. 

Once  or  twice,  long  ago,  she  had  gone  with 
her  husband  on  business  to  a"  seaport  town, 
and  satisfied,  in  some  slight  measure,  her  long 
ing  for  the  sea.  But  that  was  long  ago.  There 
were  many  children  and  many  cares  of  many 
kinds.  They  were  all  men  and  women,  with 
children  of  their  own  ;  some  of  them  living  on 
farms,  around,  some  coming  home,  or  sending 
their  sons  and  daughters  to  grandmother's  for 
vacation,  this  summer  of  which  I  write. 

The  old  farmhouse, — a  low,  wide  yellow 
house,  nestled  down  among  great  white  lilacs, 
and  leafy  maples,  and  drooping  elms,  its 
green-blinded  windows  looking  out  at  you  as 
you  drove  up  the  yard,  like  half-opened  eyes, 
— was  always  full  and  over-running  in  vaca 
tion-time.  Perhaps  grandmother  herself  was 
to  blame  for  that,  she  made  them  all  so  heartily 


GRANDMOTHER    MCLEAN'S    VACATION.          267 

welcome,  and  took  such  infinite  and  smiling 
pains  to  make  them  happy.  Back  and  forth, 
from  cellar  to  cheese-room,  from  clothes-press 
to  chamber,  from  pantry  to  kitchen,  you  could 
hear  the  steady  "trot"  of  her  tired  but  willing 
feet.  And  she  gave  just  as  cordial  greeting  to 
Joel's  widow,  with  her  three  children,  who 
could  make  no  return  for  her  hospitality,  as  to 
the  household  of  John,  the  successful  man  of 
the  family.  Lois,  now  a  woman  of  forty-five, 
was  the  only  one  who  remained  unmarried.  It 
had  seemed  probable,  once,  that  she  would  be 
mistress  of  a  fine  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 
Its  owner  and  occupant,  Ansel  Fletcher,  had 
confidently  hoped  it  would  be  so,  but  some 
thing,  no  one  ever  quite  knew  what,  had 
estranged  them.  She  went  out  sometimes  as 
nurse,  commanding  high  wages,  by  her  skill 
and  experience,  but  this  summer  she  did  not 
mean  to  leave  her  mother  with  the  care  of  farm 
and  house. 

Early  in  June  John  had  brought  his  frail 
little  daughter,  Jean,  wasted  with  a  winter's 
illness,  to  try  the  tonic  of  the  air  of  the  hills. 
And  as  soon  as  school  was  out,  Jean's  elder 
sister,  May,  and  her  brother  Will,  and  the 
mother,  had  come.  And  Joel's  fatherless 
children  and  their  mother  were  there.  And 


268  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

Mahala,  Mrs.  Olney,  with  a  daughter  of  eigh 
teen,  and  a  son  a  little  older  to  follow  by  and 

by. 

And  of  course  the  families  of  Mary  and 
Martha, — matrons  who  lived  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  had  long  borne  the  names  of  Grey 
and  Brownlee,  were  often  with  their  cousins 
"at  grandmother's." 

The  young  people  were  all  together  in  her 
cool  sitting-room  one  afternoon  late  in  July. 
Harry  Brownlee  had  come  over  bringing  the 
mail ;  the  most  of  it  was  for  Uncle  John,  who 
sat  down  with  it  just  outside  the  window, 
under  the  great  oak  tree  in  the  yard,  out  of 
sight,  but  within  hearing.  There  were  also, 
letters  for  the  young  folks,  and  there  was  a 
lull  in  their  merry  talk  while  they  opened 
them. 

"Brother  Charlie  is  coming  Saturday,"  said 
Marian  Olney,  folding  the  letter  she  had  read, 
and  carrying  it  to  her  mother  in  the  next  room. 

"And  then  we  must  have  our  excursion  to 
the  Point,  and  our  picnic  to  the  Oaks,"  said 
Harry. 

"Right  away,  too,"  added  his  sister  Nell,  "for 
father  and  mother  are  going  to  take  a  little 
vacation  week  after  next,  and  then  we  can't 
leave  the  house  all  day." 


GRANDMOTHER   MCLEAN'S    VACATION.  269 

"Aunt  Martha  and  Uncle  Enoch  going  to 
take  a  vacation?"  asked  May  McLean,  with 
surprise  in  her  voice.  ''Wonders  will  never 
cease.  I  thought  they  never  had  a  day  off." 

"They're  going  to  this  year,"  rejoined  Nell. 

"Everybody  takes  a  vacation  but  Grand 
mother,"  said  little  Jean. 

"Where  is  Grandma,  anyway,"  asked  some 
one. 

"In  the  cheese-room, — no,  in  the  pantry 
making  pies.  Yes  she  is,  Aunt  Lois,  you  know 
had  to  go  to  Mrs.  Horn's,  who  they  say  is 
dying,  and  Grandma  has  to  do  'most  every 
thing  alone." 

"Grandmother  wouldn't  take  a  vacation,  any 
way,"  said  Harry. 

"Much  you  know  about  it,"  retorted  Nell. 

"Yes  she  would,"  said  May  thoughtfully. 
"Not  a  common  vacation  like  ours,  maybe,  but 
there's  somewhere  she  wants  to  go,  or  did," — 

"I  know,"  said  Jean,  "back  to  where  she 
used  to  live.  She  has  told  me  so  much  about 
it!  It  must  be  beautiful  there.  It  was  lovely, 
long  ago,  and  now  ever  so  many  folks  spend 
their  summers  there." 

"When  I  was  a  little  girl,  I  remember,"  said 
Anna  Grey, — she  was  fifteen  now,  —  "one 
summer  Grandma  planned  to  go.  She  had 


270  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

sold  a  cow,  and  had  money  enough  to  do  it, 
and  Aunt  Lois  was  to  go  with  her,  and  Aunt 
Margaret  was  coming  to  keep  house.  But 
mother,  and  Aunt  Martha,  and  Aunt  Mahala, 
all  thought  Grandma  was  too  old,  and  it  was 
a  great  undertaking,  and  a  long  journey,  off 
among  strangers,  and  she  gave  it  up." 

"What  a  pity  !" 

"It  was  a  shame  !" 

"So  I  always  thought,  but  they  said  so  much 
against  it  she  didn't  of  course  feel  like  going." 

"She  ought  to  go  now."  „ 

"Perhaps  she  hasn't  the  money,"  said  Minnie 
McLean. 

"But  we  could  raise  it,  among  the  children 
and  grand-children,  and  she  could  go  this 
summer,  or  September  would  be  the  pleasant- 
est  time." 

The  plan  was  noisily  approved  by  the  other 
young  people,  and  Harry  was  appointed  as 
collector,  and  Jean  as  treasurer  of  the  fund, 
while  May,  Marian,  Nell,  Minnie,  "Will  and 
Charlie  were  an  advisory  committee. 

"How  nice  it  would  be  for  her  to  go  and  find 
out  old  friends  and  relatives.  Maybe  there'd 
be  some  nice  cousins  among  them,"  said  Nell. 

"Grandmother  was  an  only  child." 

"Second  or  third  cousins,  of  course  I  mean, 
— and  much  the  better,"  answered  she  saucily, 


GRANDMOTHER  MCLEAN'S  VACATION.        271 

with  a  glance  that  silenced  quiet  Will.  "And 
then  they'd  be  coming  back  to  visit  us." 

It  was  resolved  to  begin  at  once,  but  Uncle 
John  had  heard  it  all,  though  they  had  for 
gotten  his  proximity,  and  with  a  remorseful 
remembrance  of  his  mother's  long  desire,  so 
many  years  forgotten  and  unsatisfied,  had 
resolved,  ere  they  were  done  talking,  to  him 
self  take  her  back  to  that  old  town  by  the  sea, 
under  his  own  protection,  and  of  course,  at  his 
expense,  that  very  year.  And  he  found  oppor 
tunity  to  tell  her  about  it  that  very  night.  He 
had  seldom  seen  his  mother  so  moved,  as  by 
the  prospect  of  seeing  again,  so  soon,  her  child 
hood  haunts.  Her  tremulous  smile,  and  brim 
ming  eyes,  when  she  could  believe  he  really 
meant  it,  touched  him  painfully.  And  he  was 
the  more  resolved  to  make  this  holida}^  of  a 
lifetime  a  happy  one. 

The  cousins  looked  blank  when  Harry  had 
found  it  out  and  came  back  to  declare  his  occu 
pation  gone.  But  Nell  said  :  "How  delight 
ful  !  Go  ahead  and  get  the  money  just  the 
same,  Harry,  for  she's  got  to  have  something 
to  wear,  you  know.  Do  you  suppose  we'd  let 
her  go  among  strangers  in  that  faded  old  black 
cashmere  she'd  worn  this  six  years?" 

"And  the  black  silk  that's  as  old  as  my 
mother,"  said  Jean. 


272        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

"And  that  big,  old  bonnet?  Now  we  can 
get  her  something  nice,  and  every  one  can 
help,  if  it's  ever  so  little." 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see, — these  maidens 
so  anxiously  intent  on  preparing  grandmother's 
wardrobe,  as  interested  as  over  their  own 
dresses  and  hats.  And  it  was  pleasant,  too, 
to  watch  grandmother,  pleased,  yet  demurr 
ing,  submit,  with  her  serenity  a  trifle  ruffled 
by  the  vexing  vanities  of  basque  or  round  waist, 
plain  skirt  or  ruffled,  watered  silk  or  plain 
satin  trimmings,  to  the  innumerable  discus 
sions,  councils,  fittings  and  try  ings  on,  that 
attended  the  making  of  the  fabrics  the  children 
had  bought,  and  the  •  mothers  selected  or 
approved. 

Mrs.  Joel,  who  was  a  dressmaker,  had  vol 
unteered  to  cut  and  make,  as  her  part,  and  her 
taste  proved  excellent. 

"Grandmother's  going  to  look  ever  so  nice," 
said  Marian  one  day,  over  the  ruffling  she  had 
offered  to  hem. 

"Of  course  she  is,"  said  Jean. 

"But  I  never  knew  before,"  said  Nell,  "that 
she  liked  pretty  things  so  well.  She  goes 
along  and  smooths  and  pats  that  black  silk 
(and  it  is  a  beauty  ! )  and  watches  Aunt  Grace 
at  her  sewing,  as  pleased  as  a  child.  The  cash- 


GRANDMOTHER   MCLEAN'S   VACATION.  273 

mere's  ever  so  nice  for  travelling,  and  the 
wrap  Uncle  Enoch  and  Aunt  Martha  sent  for 
and  gave  her,  is  just  as  pretty  and  lady-like  as 
it  can  he." 

"Grandmother  really  cried  over  that,"  said 
May,  "she  was  so  pleased  and  surprised." 

"But  I  think  she  was  just  as  pleased, — a  little 
childish,  may  be, — over  the  lovely  laces  and 
the  collars,  and  the  fine  hem-stitched  handker 
chiefs  you  and  your  mother  got." 

"I  don't  know, — but  have  you  seen  the  hand 
bag  the  boys  got  her  !" 

"Yes,  and  that's  fine,  too." 

From  which  bit  of  talk  will  be  seen  that  the 
McLeans,  having  once  made  up  their  minds  to 
do  a  thing,  would  spare  no  pains  to  do  it  well. 
And  they  made  Grandmother  ready  with  a 
thoughtful  generosity  that  was  a  continued 
surprise,  and  a  joy  that  was  half  a  pain  to 
her.  She  "wasn't  used  to  having  so  much  done 
for  her,"  she  said,  and  some  of  her  children 
realized  remorsefully  how  true  it  was. 

It  was  the  middle  of  September  when  they 
went.  Aunt  Lois  was  at  home,  and  Grand 
mother  could  trust  with  her  the  house  and  the 
hens,  the  cows  and  the  cheeses.  Harry  could 
stay  nights.  And  had  not  Ansel  Fletcher 
called  one  day  to  offer  his  sei  vices  if  in  any 
13 


274        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

way  they  should  be  needed  ?  He  was  brother 
to  Mrs.  Harris,  whom  Aunt  Lois  had  nursed 
back  to  health,  and  it  is  possible  Lois  may 
have  met  him  there  more  than  once  of  late. 
Certainly  there  was  that  in  the  face  or  demeanor 
of  each  that  made  Grandmother  look  at  them 
a  little  more  keenly  when  she  saw  them 
together  that  day  for  the  first  time  in  years, 
and  remember  it  while  she  journe}ed.  So 
delightful  a  journey  it  was  to  Grandmother. 
Jean  and  her  mother  accompanied  them  part  of 
the  way,  en  route  for  the  mountains.  All  the 
other  aunts  and  cousins  had  flitted  homeward 
ere  that  time.  Every  comfort  and  attention 
that  love  could  prompt  or  money  furnish,  Uncle 
John  lavished  on  her  during  that  two  days' 
journey.  He  had  insisted  it  should  be  broken 
by  a  night's  rest.  And  never  bride  or  maiden 
had  a  tenderer  or  more  chivalrous  escort.  I 
think,  too,  he  was  proud  of  his  silvery-haired 
mother,  with  her  saintly  face,  her  pure  and 
gentle  speech,  her  ladylike  dress  and  manners. 
Strangers  gave  her  admiring  looks,  and  friends 
all  had  courteous  introductions  in  the  crowded 
cars  or  in  the  great  hotels. 

Arriving  at  the  town  which  was  their  desti 
nation,  he  took  her  at  once  to  the  best  hotel, 
and  installed  her  in  a  room  which  seemed  to 


GRANDMOTHER   MCLEAN'S    VACATION.          275 

her  extravagantly  luxurious.  Every  day  he 
took  her  to  see  the  places  she  had  known  so 
well,  in  an  easy  carriage,  himself  driving. 

The  town  had  become  a  populous  little  city, 
well-known  also  as  a  summer  resort.  But  in 
that  part  where  her  home  had  been  it  was  little 
changed.  She  found  the  old  homestead  sadly 
changed,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  a  satisfaction 
even  to  cross  its  threshold  or  sit  in  the  yard. 
Indeed  it  was  a  joy  to  her,  as  she  said,  just  to 
tread  the  old  rocky  soil. 

They  went  to  the  little  graveyard  and  she 
walked  without  hesitation  to  the  old  lot  where 
her  father  and  her  child  lay.  Neglected  it 
was,  but,  as  Uncle  John  saw,  a  little  care 
would  restore  it.  He  thought  somewhat  self- 
reproachfully  of  certain  antiquarian  researches 
and  expenditures  of  his  own,  while  those  graves 
of  his  kindred  had  been  unknown  and  neglected 
by  him.  And  before  they  left  town,  the  lot 
was  in  seemly  and  even  beautiful  order. 

They  had  long  drives  around  the  rocky 
coast.  The  sea  was  the  same  ;  and  the  irregu 
lar  cliff  wrhose  every  turn  and  precipice  was 
familiar  to  her.  And  it  was  an  inexpressible 
delight  to  look  out  over  the  sea,  and  feel  the 
saltness  of  the  breeze. 

They  did  not  long  remain  strangers  in 
the  place.  Making  inquiries  about  families 


276  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

Grandmother  had  known,  some  of  them  her 
cousins,  he  discovered  that  one  gentleman 
whom  he  had  well  known,  Mr.  Allan,  was 
quite  a  near  relative,  and  he  introduced  them 
to  others.  There  were  only  a  very  few  old  peo 
ple  whom  Grandma  remembered  as  young 
ones,  but  she  found  several  delightful  homes 
belonging  to  their  children  or  grandchildren. 
They  would  not  hear  of  her  staying  on  at  the 
hotel,  after  they  found  her  out,  and  so  Uncle 
John  left  her  as  thetr  guest  for  a  little  while. 
The  week  she  had  planned  to  spend  slipped 
away,  and  others  with  it,  so  it  was  nearly  the 
middle  of  October  when  she  came  home.  She 
was  richer  by  memories  and  pleasures  unnum 
bered,  but  she  found  herself  somewhat  poorer 
on  her  return.  Mr.  Fletcher,  it  seems,  had 
renewed  his  suit,  and,  finding  it  successful, 
would  wait  no  longer,  and  the  quiet  wedding 
was  to  be  at  once.  It  was  odd  that  it  should 
have  happened  in  Grandmother's  absence,  so 
much  of  it,  as  if  he  and  sober  Aunt  Lois  had 
been  young  and  bashful  lovers.  But  the  home 
less  aunt  who  was  invited  to  take  her  place  as 
Grandmother's  stay,  was  only  too  glad  to  come 
immediately.  No  tongue  could  tell,  and  cer 
tainly  not  Grandmother's,  unused  to  loquacity, 
all  she  had  seen  and  heard  and  enjoyed  during 


GRANDMOTHER   MCLEAN'S    VACATION.          277 

that  trip  ;  yet  she  did  talk  more  than  she  had 
ever  done  before,  there  was  so  much  to  tell 
about  it.  And  nothing  delighted  either  her 
or  the  children  more  than  for  her  to  be  en 
treated  to  tell  them  about  her  vacation  visit. 

There  were  cousins,  and  "nice  ones,"  as  Nell 
had  hoped,  who  found  their  way  soon  to  Maine, 
and  came  again  and  again.  And  some  of  the 
older  friends  came  too.  But  Grandmother 
never  went  again,  nor  seemed  to  care  to.  The 
hived  sweetness  of  her  recollections  of  that 
month  lasted  all  the  remaining  years.  Noth 
ing  about  it  seemed  to  disappoint  her.  Per 
haps  the  sweetness  and  serenity  of  her  heart 
sweetened  it  all. 

She  began  to  fail  slowly, .  yet  perceptibly, 
not  long  afterward,  and  it  was  not  many  years 
longer  that  she  wras  in  the  old  home,  for  her 
gentle  spirit  had  winged  its  way  to  the  heavenly 
abiding  places.  And  when  her  peaceful  life 
ended,  and  she  was  laid  in  the  graveyard  where 
sounded  only  the  IOWT  murmur  of  the  river  or 
the  music  of  the  pines,  there  was  not  one 
among  her  loved  ones  who  mourned  her  so 
sincerely,  who  was  not  glad  to  remember 
Grandmother's  one  vacation,  not  one  who  did 
not  wish  the  pleasure  they  gave  her  then  had 
been  many  times  repeated  and  multiplied. 


278  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

The  cousins,  two  or  three  degrees  removed, 
who  dwell  on  the  Massachusetts  coast,  are  not 
strangers  now.  Some  of  them,  strange  to 
say,  are  now  more  nearly  connected  with  the 
McLeans.  Other  names  have  been  given  and 
taken.  And  only  last  year  a  young  and  lively 
lady  went,  not  in  an  emigrant-wagon, — (we 
knew  her  as  Nell  Brownlee,  but  she  is  Nell 
Allen  now),— to  make  good  to  Massachusetts 
the  loss  of  that  demurer  maiden  who  came  to 
Maine  seventy  years  ago. 


MISS  HANNAH'S  HARVESTING. 


Miss  Hannah  Hoitt  lived  alone  in  a  wide  old 
house  that  had  sheltered  the  families  of  her 
father  and  her  grandfather  before  her.  Its 
square,  low-ceiled  rooms  were  peopled,  for  her, 
with  precious  memories  and  tender  associations. 
She  would  not  shut  the  sunlight  quite  out  of 
any  of  them,  so  that  they  all  retained  some 
pleasant  look  as  of  occupancy.  And  the  rooms 
she  really  lived  in  were  bright,  restful,  sun 
shiny,  wTith  enough  of  the  old-time  quaintness 
to  give  them  a  peculiar  charm,  and  sufficient 
subserviency  to  newer  fashions  and  fancies  of 
adornment  to  assure  you  that  the  owner  lived 
in  to-day,  rather  than  yesterday. 

Miss  Hoitt  was  much  esteemed  in  the  little 
community  of  Millton  as  a  woman  of  means, 
of  sense,  of  character,  of  generous  purposes 
and  practices.  The  farm  had  dwindled  from 
its  once  broad  area  of  tillage  and  meadow  and 


.280  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

pasture  and  woodland,  to  less  than  sixty  acres. 
Yet  it  was  large  enough  for  her  to  manage,  for 
she  carried  it  on  herself,  with  as  careful  and 
capable  an  oversight  as  was  exercised  by  any 
of  her  neighbors  on  their  domains.  It  was  the 
standing  wonder  of  the  neighborhood  and  of 
the  little  town,  "how  Miss  Hannah  could  'man 
age'  so  well."  Every  spring  the  boldness  and 
magnitude  of  her  ventures  astonished  them. 
Every  fall  the  quantity  and  quality  of  the  crops 
she  produced  therefrom  amazed  them  still 
more.  Her  beans  and  corn,  her  cabbages 
and  cucumbers  and  onions,  her  beets  and  her 
asparagus,  nodded  to  one  another  from  their 
weedless  rows  in  triumphant  luxuriance.  Her 
berries  blushed  in  exultation.  Her  little 
orchard  dropped  its  rosy  and  golden  fruit 
gleefully.  In  truth,  it  was  the  garnering  of 
her  harvests  that  perplexed  her.  She  revelled 
in  the  long  days  when  she  could  dig  and  tend 
and  water,  and  "see  the  things  grow."  But 
when  the  days  grew  short,  and  the  first  frosts 
came,  and  the  pumpkin-vines  grew  black,  and 
the  potato-tops  died,  and  she  began  to  fear  for 
her  tenderer  fruit,  then  despair  and  dismay 
began  to  fill  her  soul.  For  then  her  house 
keeping  tasks  were  more  onerous,  her  neigh 
bors  could  seldom  be  hired  to  help,  and  "help," 


MISS  HANNAH'S  HARVESTING.  281 

proper,  was  "scarce."  And,  though  Miss  Hoitt 
was  no  scold,  and  didn't  know  how  to  whine, 
her  voice  was  apt  to  grow  plaintive  as  she 
sometimes  related  her  anxieties. 

Hers  was  a  bright  and  busy  life,  in  all  its 
loneliness ;  and  many  a  weaker  or  less  hopeful 
heart  shared  its  sunshine.  She  had  not  always 
expected  to  live  thus  alone.  Once  she  had 
looked  forward  to  a  far  different  life.  Perhaps 
it  had  been  all  the  harder  that  her  own  hand 
had  put  aside  her  joys.  But  she  couldn't  have 
done  otherwise,  she  would  remind  herself. 
There  was  only  she  to  take  care  of  the  ageing 
father,  the  querulous  grandmother,  the  invalid 
sister, — all  gone  from  her  long  ago.  And  he, 
Allen  Maynard,  had  his  own  brave  life  to  live. 
She  would  not  let  him  waste  any  of  it  waiting. 
She  had  sent  him  away,  and  perhaps  she  had 
not  told  him  very  clearly  the  reason  why. 
But  she  had  never  ceased  to  think  of  him  and 
pray  for  him.  When  she  read  that  pathetic 
story  of  Miss  Jewett's,  "A  Lost  Lover,"  it 
came  to  her  suddenly  that  her  lover  might  have 
been  "lost,"  to  her,  and  the  world,  to  goodness 
and  God,  as  that  man  was.  But  she  always 
said  to  herself  that  that  could  never  have  been. 
Wherever  Allen  Maynard  was,  she  was  very 
sure  that  he  was  still  good  and  useful  and 
brave  and  genuine. 


282        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

Over  her  low  threshold,  above  which  hop- 
vines  grew,  and  morning  glories  hung,  from 
dawn  till  noon,  their  dewy  chalices  of  purple 
and  crimson  and  white,  came  one  late  Septem 
ber  afternoon,  her  nearest  neighbor,  and  one 
of  her  dearest  friends,  Mrs.  Sterne.  She  was 
younger  by  a  few  years  than  Miss  Hoitt,  but 
loved,  trusted,  petted,  even  sometimes  confided 
in,  by  the  older  woman. 

"Come  in,  Lucy  ?  What's  the  matter,  child  ? 
Something  worries  you  ;  and  you're  tired  out, 
too.  Now  just  go  into  the  sitting-room  and 
take  the  easy  chair,  and  I'll  be  in  in  a  minute, 
just  as  soon  as  I  slip  on  my  other  dress. 

"You  see,"  she  resumed,  a  little  later,  coming 
back  freshly  attired,  "I've  been  trying  to  get 
in  my  grapes  and  pears,  and  some  of  my  apples. 
I  had  to  begin  in  season,  and  keep  at  it,  a  little 
to  a  time,  and  I'm  wofully  behindhand  now; 
and  help  I  can't  seem  to  get,  for  everybody  else 
is  busy  too.  Now,  Lucy,  what  troubles  you, 
and  what  can  I  do?" 

George  Eliot  remarks  on  the  widely  different 
meanings  that  may  be  given  to  those  last  four 
words  by  the  tone  and  inflection  with  which 
they  are  uttered ;  expressing  no\v  heartiest 
sympathy  and  helpfulness,  now  the  coldest  of 
indifferent  courtesy.  But  the  words  as  Miss 


MISS  HANNAH'S  HARVESTING.          283 

Hannah  said  them,  were   full  of  the    wish  to 
help,  and  to  know  how  to  help. 

"I  don't  like  to  tell  you,  Hannah ;  you  have 
cares  enough,  without  our  rolling  any  of  ours 
on  to  you.  But  Jotham's  sister  Emily,  she 
that  married  a  Swift,  is  sick  with  typhoid 
fever,  the  real,  raging  typhoid.  They  live 
over  to  Easton,  you  know,  and  there's  nobody, 
hardly,  to  go,  but  me  ;  and  it  seems  as  if  I 
muxt  go  right  off  and  stay  till  she's  better. 
And  there's  only  Mary  Nelson,  and  she  so 
young  and  heedless,  for  all  I've  had  her  a  year 
and  done  my  be&t  with  her,  to  learn  her,  to 
keep  house.  She  could  do  well  enough  for 
Jotham  and  John,  but  Jotham's  got  men  a 
coming  right  away, — the  threshers,  and  car 
penters  to  do  his  barn.  That  can't  be  put  off. 
And  the  new  superintendent  in  the  mills,  he 
promised  certainly  he'd  board,  because  he  used 
to  know  him,  and  it  would  be  handy  and 
homelike." 

"And  you  want  me  to  take  "em?"  queried 
Miss  Hannah. 

"O  Miss  Hannah  !  we  do  hate  to  ask  or  let 
you.  But  what  can  we  do?  And  Jotham  says 
he'll  get  all  your  apples  and  potatoes  and 
things  in,  in  good  season,  and  be  glad  to,  and 
you  shall  have  good  pay  for  the  men,  if  you 


284  UNDER   FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

only  think  you  could  do  it.  And  you  don't 
know  what  a  relief  it  would  be.  You  see, 
we've  got  to  take  Emily's  children  home,  till 
she's  better." 

"\Yell,  I'll  try  it,  and,  if  nothing  happens, 
I  guess  I  can  carry  it  through." 

"How  is  it,  Hannah,"  went  on  the  other, 
"that  most  lone  folks  have  enough  to  do  to 
take  care  of  themselves?  They  think  people 
ought  to  do  for  them,  and  lookout  for  'em,  and 
especially  when  they  get  to  middle  age.  But 
it's  always  just  the  other  way  with  you." 

"I  don't  know,"  returned  Miss  Hannah,  hesi 
tating.  "Yes,  I  do  try  to  help  other  folks  what 
I  can.  And  1  don't  see  that  I've  ever  been 
any  worse  off  for  it.  Truly,  I  think  it's  just 
that  keeps  me  up  and  gives  me  courage  to 
work.  It's  something  to  think  of  and  plan  for, 
you  know.  Now,  if  I  could  only  do  for  my 
self,  I  shouldn't  feel  as  though  'twas  hardly 
worth  while  always,  though  that's  something. 
But  when  I  can  do  something  for  someone  else, 
why,  it  makes  me  as  strong  again,  and  a  sight 
hopefuller." 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  But  now,  Hannah,  do 
take  care  of  yourself,  and  get  somebody  to 
come  in  and  help  you.  We  can't  let  you  get 
worn  out  yet." 


MISS  HANNAH'S  HARVESTING.          285 

She  did  not  look  worn  out  as  she  flitted 
about  after  her  visitor  had  gone,  getting  her 
cozy  tea  and  putting  things  in  order  for  the 
night.  Energy  was  in  every  movement  of  her 
trim,  spare  figure,  and  a  kind  of  hopeful  con 
tent  and  courage  blended  with  the  kindliness 
and  humor  that  illumined  the  brown  eyes. 
She  was  adjusting  herself  mentally  to  the  new 
turn  aflairs  had  taken  ;  with  that  ready  willing 
ness  characteristic  of  her.  "I  couldn't  do  dif 
ferently/'  she  was  saying  to  herself .  "There 
wasn't  but  me  to  do  it  anyhow  ;  and  the  money 
will  be  a  real  help  this  fall.  The  house  needs 
something  laid  out  on  it,  and  I  want  to  send 
Martha's  girls  something  by  and  by,;  and  now 
I  shall  have  a  little  more  for  missions,  home 
and  foreign,  too ;  and  I  can  get  some  of  those 
books  I've  been  wanting."  And  she  paused  in 
her  flitting  to  and  fro,  to  look  lovingly  at  the 
already  well-stocked  shelves  of  the  massive  sec 
retary,  and  thoughtfully  at  the  empty  space  in 
the  newer  bookcase  beside  it.  "Yes,  I  am  not 
so  sorry  as  I  might  be.  Twill  be  quite  a  piece 
of  work,  though,  before  it's  through.  How 
ever,  I  guess  I  can  manage." 

"Quite  a  piece  of  work"  it  proved  indeed,  to 
be.  The  threshers  came,  staid  a  week,  and 
departed.  Close  upon  them  came  the  carpen- 


286  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

ter's  crew  ;  and  just  as  they  were  well  settled, 
came  the  most  dreaded  of  all,  Mr.  Sterne's 
friend,  the  superintendent  at  the  new  mills. 
Miss  Hannah  had  word  that  he  was  coming, 
and  Mr.  Sterne  drove  over  with  him  at  supper- 
time.  He  was  in  haste,  and  stopped  only  to 
say  that  his  sister  was  no  better ;  the  fever  was 
having  a  long  run.  Lucy  was  about  worn  out, 
too.  "And  this  is  the  gentleman  we  spoke  of, 
Hannah,  that  you  said  might  stop  here  a  spell. 
I  think  he's  an  old  acquaintance  of  yours." 

And  Mr.  Sterne  had  driven  oft*  before  she 
had  had  one  good  look  at  the  man  before  her. 
He  lifted  his  hat  then  and  held  out  his  hand 
with  a  smile. 

"You  used  to  know  me,  Miss  Hoitt.  You 
can't  have  forgotten  how  many  times  we've 
trudged  up  the  hill  to  school  together,  and 
how  many  times  you  did  my  sums  and  helped 
me  out  with  my  parsing,  in  the  little  red  school- 
house  over  yonder.  Or,  if  you've  forgotten, 
I  haven't." 

"Allen  Maynard  ?  I  had  no  idea  it  was  you 
that  was  coming  !  I  didn't  really  know  who  it. 
was,  come  to  think,  but  I  didn't  dream  it  was 
you  !" 

"But  you'll  take  me  just  the  same  ?" 


MISS    HANNAHS    HARVESTING.  287 

For  answer  she  led  the  way  into  the  house, 
with  pink  cheeks,  shaking  off  her  confusion  as 
best  she  could. 

The  little  home  was  very  cheery.  The  slant 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  streamed  in  between  the 
plants  in  the  bay-window  and  gilded  the  bind 
ings  of  her  books  and  made  great  reflections 
from  the  polished  andirons.  And  in  the  next 
room  was  spread  the  dainty  tea-table,  with  its 
crimson  cloth,  its  glittering  glass,  its  tempting 
array,  and  its  vase  of  flowers  in  the  center. 
For  Miss  Hannah  was  persuaded  that  even 
"those  men"  noticed  and  appreciated  her  flow 
ers.  And  the  fragrance  of  freshly-made  tea, 
and  inviting  odors  of  browning  biscuit,  of  baked 
apples,  and  other  appetizing  dishes,  were  in 
the  air.  And  it  was  with  pleasure  not  all  con 
cealed  that  the  new  boarder  took  the  seat  she 
assigned  him.  It  chanced  to  be  opposite  her 
own.  It  was  natural  that  the  days  should  seem 
to  go  by  faster  than  ever,  now.  They  were 
very  short,  anyway,  and  Miss  Hannah  was  very 
busy.  If  any  other  element  gave  a  new,  satis 
fying  zest  to  day  time  task  and  evening  talk, 
she  did  not  own  it. 

Allen  Maynard  was  still,  "good  and  brave 
and  generous,"  though  his  hair  was  turning 
gray,  and  he  had  been  many  times  across 


288        UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

the  continent,  twice  across  the  sea,  once,  even 
around  the  world.  He  had  many  things  to  tell  of 
people  and  countries  and  customs  known  to 
her  only  through  books.  And  he  liked  books 
as  much  as  she  did,  too,  and  brought  some  of 
his  own  for  her  to  read,  and  sometimes  new 
ones  that  they  read  together. 

The  work  on  the  new  barn  dragged  wearily, 
though  Miss  Hannah  hardly  noticed  that  Octo 
ber  was  gone  and  November  was  going,  till 
one  night  she  heard  the  men  say  that  they 
should  just  about  get  done  when  the  ground 
closed  up ;  in  time  maybe,  to  get  home  before 
Thanksgiving.  And  Mrs.  Sterne  came  home  ; 
her  sister  was  convalescent,  but  she  was  well 
nigh  worn  out  herself,  with  watching. 

And  now  the  carpenters  would  go  in  a  week 
or  two,  at  most,  and  Miss  Hannah  began  to 
realize  that  the  old  life  would  soon  begin  again 
for  her,  and  that  it  would  be  lonely.  For  Mr. 
Maynard  must  go,  too.  How  should  she  let 
him  know  it?  Her  hints  fell  unheeded,  and 
though  the  men  spoke  of  going  home,  and  she, 
of  being  alone  once  more,  she  did  not  see  that 
he  noticed. 

But  it  was  her  turn  to  be  surprised  a  little 
later,  when  he  spoke  of  his  plans  for  the  win 
ter,  and  of  business  in  Easton. 


MISS  HANNAH'S  HARVESTING.          289 

He  would  not  be  near,  then,  even  to  drop 
in  of  an  evening  !  She  began  to  be  a  little 
lonely  already.  He  had  had  a  better  position 
offered  him,  maybe.  And  then  she  heard  the 
men  say  that  Mr.  Maynard  was  owner  in  the 
mills,  both  at  Millton  and  Easton.  He  had 
acted  as  overseer  here  because  he  was  needed. 
Some  one  less  capable  would  do  now,  for 
affairs  were  running  smoothly  again,  and  the 
Easton  mills  needed  his  attention.  And  they 
said  he  had  much  other  property  there,  besides. 

One  mild,  sunny  day, — an  Indian  summer 
afternoon — he  came  with  a  carriage  to  take  Miss 
Hannah  over  to  Easton  for  a  ride.  They  drove 
to  the  mills  and  around  them  ;  then  about  town. 
He  drove  slowly  past  a  large,  stately  house, 
suggestive  of  gracious  uses  and  generous  hos 
pitalities. 

"I  bought  the  place  two  or  three  years  ago/' 
he  said.  "I  have  never  rented  it.  It  would 
make  a  pleasant  home,  would  it  not?  Might 
it  not  be  our  home,  Hannah?  I  have  kept  it 
for  you.  I  have  waited  for  you.  Shall  we 
not  have  our  Indian  summer  at  last  ?" 

So  the  question  was  asked  and  answered, 
and  a  new  life  began,  with  brighter  and  warmer 
/and  richer  joys,  and  larger  opportunities. 

The  neighbors  had  "always  known  that  Miss 
Hannah  was  smart ;  she  had  done  better  than 


290  "^-•-   UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

ever  this  year,  too  ;  but  they  hadn't  expected, 
with  all  the  rest,  at  her  time  of  life,  too,  she 
would  be  harvestin'  a  husband." 


THE  SERMON  DAVID  TRAIN  HEARD.  ON 
MEMORIAL  DAY. 


He  didn't  hear  it  at  the  Town  Hall,  for  he 
didn't  go  there.  None,  save  himself,  heard  it 
at  all,  and  he  was  not  listening  for  it. 

David  Train  was  not  accustomed  to  keep 
Memorial  Day  in  any  way.  And  while  his 
neighbors  got  out  their  carriages  and  washed 
their  mud-bespattered  wagons,  and  brushed  and 
renovated  their  old  clothes,  or  got  themselves 
ones,  to  go  to  "Decoration,"  he  always 
planned  to  stay  at  home.  He  would  have  a 
bit  of  carpenter  work  about  his  barn  or  sheds, 
that  must  be  done  ;  or  a  piece  of  fence  to  put 
up  ;  or  a  little  late  planting  that  he  could  leave 
no  longer ;  and  the  feint  roll  of  distant  drums, 
the  sounds  of  martial  music  coming  through 
the  pleasant  air,  and  the  rattle  of  hurrying 
teams  as  the  country  folks  drove  by,  did  not 
at  all  disturb  him. 


292  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

So  you  may  infer,  and  rightly,  that  David 
Train  was  not  a  "public-spirited"  man ;  nor 
had  he  quite  the  impulses  or  principles  of  an 
ardently  patriotic  person.  He  asked  no  favor, 
of  place  or  patronage,  of  his  country.  Such 
little  offices  as  had  been  entrusted  to  him  in 
the  town  or  county,  he  had  not  sought ;  and 
the  duties  thereof  he  had  discharged  with  an 
honest  fidelity  that  was  above  suspicion  of 
greed  or  selfishness.  Indeed,  he  was  not  a 
stingy,  hardly  a  selfish,  man.  Or  perhaps  I 
should  say  his  selfishness  was  rather  a  negative 
than  a  positive  quality.  He  simply  "minded 
his  own  affairs,"  and  kept  on  in  his  own  little 
round  of  his  own  duties  and  interests.  Only, 
every  year,  as  he  grew  older,  that  round  of 
recognized  duties  grew  narrower,  and  year  by 
year  the  claims  upon  him,  outside  his  own 
small  household,  had  less  hold  upon  him. 
When  a  neighbor  would  tell  him  of  something 
in  village  affairs  that  ought  to  be  righted  ;  of 
town  improvements  that  might  be  made  ;  of  a 
need,  or  a  want,  or  an  abuse,  that  earnest  and 
honest  men  might  do  away  with, — the  sug 
gestion  was  dismissed  with  the  satisfied  re 
mark  that  he — David  Train — "had  no  call 
to  meddle."  He  had  "no  call" — or  he  heard 
none — to  help  improve  and  re-grade  the 


THE  SERMOX  DAVID  TRAIN  HEARD.          293 

schools,  to  secure  a  town  library,  to  raise 
funds  for  a  soldiers'  monument.  And,  of 
course,  he  had  no  call,  either,  to  join  in  the 
Memorial  Day  observances.  His  wife  had 
always  a  great  basketful  of  flowers  and  vines 
to  send  by  some  neighbor,  for  the  ladies  in  the 
village  to  arrange.  She  saved  jealously  her 
geranium  blossoms,  her  petunias,  the  blooms 
of  her  oleander,  the  early  sown  nasturtiums  in 
her  window  boxes,  and  her  roses.  And  she 
had  the  bloom  of  the  early  things  that  lived 
over  in  her  little  front  yard, — snowballs  and 
flowering  almond,  white  lilacs,  polyanthus, 
tulips  and  jonquils,  and  the  lilies  of  the  valley. 
She  always  sighed  because  Decoration  Day 
came  so  early.  A  month  or  two  later,  her 
carefully  tended  flower-beds — a  half-dozen 
they  were,  sown  with  all  the  simple,  easily 
started  seeds  that  thrive  in  dear,  old-fashioned 
gardens — would  be  masses  of  bloom.  Yet  her 
contribution  to  the  Memorial  garlands  was  by 
no  means  to  be  despised.  Her  flowers  were 
her  one  indulgence,  and  her  husband  always 
humored  her  in  it,  helping  her  in  his  clumsy 
fashion,  and  paying  little  heed,  apparently,  to 
the  disposal  or  distribution  of  the  flowers. 

She,  perhaps,  would  have  liked  to  go  to  the 
Decoration    Day    services.     Once    in  a  while 


294         UNDER  FRIENDLY  EAVES. 

she  did  go,  with  one  of  her  married  daughters, 
or  an  obliging  nephew.  To-day  she  had  no 
such  opportunity,  and  after  her  housework  was 
done,  busied  herself  in  her  garden,  around  her 
shrubs  and  her  herb-bed. 

"I  wonder,"  mused  she,  presently,  "where 
David  is?  I  thought  he  was  a  hamnierin'  out 
to  the  barn  or  somewheres,  but  I  don't  hear 
him.  Mebbe  he's  gone  over  to  the  pasture,  to 
build  a  fence  or  something." 

He  had  gone  across  the  fields,  with  hammer 
in  hand  and  nails  in  his  pocket,  but  it  was  not 
in  the  direction  of  the  pasture.  A  few  minutes 
later  he  might  have  been  seen  entering  the 
little  grave-yard,  down  among;:  the  meadows, 
beyond  the  railroad  track.  This  little  ceme 
tery,  he  knew,  had  been  visited  by  a  delega 
tion  from  the  G.  A.  R.  Post  in  the  forenoon, 
and  would  doubtless  be  left  to  its  usual  solitary 
quiet  the  remainder  of  the  day.  It  was  not 
very  much  used,  only  by  a  certain  section.  It 
was  quite  large,  however,  and  well  kept,  for 
a  country  grave-yard. 

The  week  before,  Mr.  Train,  who  was  a 
carpenter,  as  well  as  a  farmer,  had  had  a  let 
ter  from  Squire  Rollins,  whose  boyhood  home 
was  near  his  own.  Squire  Rollins's  business, 
and  his  home  during  the  winter,  were  in 


THE  SERMON  DAVID  TRAIN  HEARD.         295 

another  state  and  city.  But  he  still  came, 
with  his  family,  to  the  old  homestead  to  pass 
the  summers.  He  was  later  than  usual  this 
year,  but  was  coming  soon  ;  and  friends  who 
wanted  to  explore  the  region  quite  thoroughly, 
one  of  whom  was,  he  said,  "a  bit  of  an  anti 
quarian,"  were  coming  with  him.  He  had 
wanted  some  things  done  about  the  home 
place,  and  had  also  asked  his  neighbor  to  go 
over  to  the  grave-yard  and  rnend  the  fence  a 

O  v 

little,  and  especially  put  in  seemly  order  the 
Rollins  family  lot.  The  fence  was  not  badly 
broken.  A  half-hour's  work  made  it  neat  and 
strong.  Nor  was  there  very  much  to  do  on 
the  Squire's  lot.  There  were  a  few  boughs, 
that  had  protected  the  ivies  and  the  rose 
bushes,  to  take  away,  and  leaves  and  dead 
grass  to  be  removed ;  fortunately  he  had 
brought  a  small  rake  with  the  hammer. 

The  place  where  his  departed  friends,  neigh 
bors,  and  kindred  slept,  had  no  terrors  nor 
awful,  depressing  associations  for  David  Train. 
He  was  a  Christian,  with  a  Christian's  faith. 
It  may  be  his  belief  was  rather  deep  and  high 
than  broad  and  generous,  yet  it  was  a  vital, 
sustaining,  really  consoling  one.  He  did  not 
follow  it  out  to  its  full,  grand,  sacrificial, 
beneficent,  reasonable  development  in  all  rela 
tions  of  this  life.  He  did  not  realize  and  ful- 


296  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

fill — who  of  us  does? — the  length  and  breadth 
and  depth  and  hight  of  love  and  service,  which 
should  answer  to  "the  breadth  and  length  and 
hight  and  depth"  of  "the  love  of  Christ,  which 
passeth  knowledge."  But  his  faith  was  very 
real. 

The  sunshine,  the  birds,  the  summer  winds, 
and  "the  green  things  growing,"  were  all  doing 
their  best  to  brighten  the  lonely  quiet  of  the 
spot.  The  grass  was  green  upon  the  graves, 
the  sunshine  flecked  the  sward.  The  winds 
were  breathing  softly  over  the  bending  wil 
lows,  and  the  willows  themselves  were  very 
tenderly  green.  Here  and  there  a  wild 
flower  peeped  out,  and  a  ground-sparrow 
had  hidden  her  home  in  a  corner.  The  robins 
had  their  nests  in  the  elms  all  builded,  and 
some  of  them  had  leisure  to  sing  right  tune 
fully.  "To-give-is-to-live — to-give-is-to-live  !" 
sang  the  merry-hearted  bobolinks.  "To-gtve- 
is-to-live — to-give-is-to-live  !  For-givmg-is- 
living-you-know-ow  !" 

And  everything  around  was  giving  some 
thing  to  the  rest  and  to  the  world.  Even  the 
solemn  old  pines,  half-a-mile  away,  sent  down 
their  healing  fragrance  lr>  willing  messengers, 
—the  winds. 

David  Train  went  to  and  fro  about  his  work. 
He  had  raked  up  the  litter  of  leaves,  and  was 


THE  SERMON  DAVID  TRAIN  HEARD.         297 

carrying  it  away.  Here  and  there,  in  many 
lots,  were  fresh  wreaths  and  bouquets,  and  the 
most  of  them  were  on  those  long  mounds  which 
were  marked,  with  tiny  flags,  as  soldiers' 
graves.  He  stopped  sometimes,  as  he  passed, 
to  read  the  inscriptions  on  the  head-stones. 
"He  heard  his  Country's  call,"  or  "He  gave  his 
life  for  his  Country,"  was  frequently  carved  on 
the  marble  above  such  resting-places. 

The  names  were  nearly  all  of  them  familiar 
to  Mr.  Train.  Some  of  them  were  of  men 
who  had  died  within  a  few  years, — veterans  of 
the  war.  Some  of  them  had  been  there  twenty 
years  or  more.  David  Train  had  not  been  a 
soldier.  He  did  not  volunteer,  and  he  had 
not  been  drafted.  Yet  he  had  given, — rather 
should  I  say  there  had  been  wrenched  from 
him  in  that  time  of  strife  and  peril, — some 
thing  more  precious  than  his  own  service,  or 
even  his  life.  A  younger  brother,  inexpress 
ibly  dear  to  the  quiet,  self-contained  man, — 
for  such  he  was  even  in  youth, — had  enlisted, 
in  all  the  ardor  of  patriotic  self-devotion.  He 
had  not  lived  to  serve  his  country  long.  And 
that  grim,  flower-covered  mound,  with  the 
gleaming  marble  at  its  head,  held  all  that  had 
come  back  from  the  Southern  battle-field  where 
he  was  wounded. 
14 


298  UNDER   FRIENDLY   EAVES. 

This  had  been  the  one  deep,  uncured  sorrow 
of  David  Train's  life.  To  only  one  other  had 
the  loss  caused  such  anguish.  Mary  Neal,  his 
brother's  betrothed,  saw  the  dearest  hopes  of 
her  life  go  out,  when  the  sad  newsqame.  But 
sorrow  had,  ere  long,  unlocked,  enriched,  fer 
tilized  her  life.  She  was  abundant  in  good 
works,  many  of  them  hidden,  all  of  them 
unobtrusive,  yet  none  the  less  real  and  benefi 
cent. 

After  his  work  was  done,  David  Train  went 
to  the  corner  of  the  burying-ground  where 
slept  his  father  and  mother,  long  dead,  and 
the  sister  who  had  died  in  infancy,  beside  that 
blossom-laden  grave,  whose  stone  bore  the 
name  of  "Edward  Train."  It  was  yet  early ; 
he  was  tired,  and  the  place  was  very  still,  so 
he  sat  down  to  rest.  He  fell  to  musing,  as  he 
not  infrequently  did,  over  what  Edward  would 
have  been  and  done  if  he  had  lived.  Some 
times  he  fancied  him  a  minister  in  the  pulpit ; 
sometimes  he  saw  him  going  to  India,  the 
Gospel  in  his  hands ;  sometimes  he  appeared 
a  heroic  Christian  pioneer  in  the  far  West. 
Oftener  the  elder  brother  imagined  the  younger 
one  engaged  in  some  form  of  missionary  work 
at  home ;  perhaps  in  a  great  city,  perhaps  in 
a  scattered,  struggling  rural  parish.  "He'd 


THE  SERMON  DAVID  TRAIN  HEARD.          299 

have  given  himself  away  somehow,  if  he  hadn't 
gone  to  war,"  sighed  the  musing  man. 

"To-give-is-is-^s-to-live,"  sans;  that  wise  bob- 

O  D 

olink  again  ;  but  his  one  hearer  did  not  under 
stand,  so  he  flew  away,  and  the  man  went  on 
wondering.  Wondering  if,  had  circumstances 
so  seemed  to  determine  it  that  his  brother  had 
been,  say,  in  his  own  environments, — been  a 
busy,  hard-working,  prosperous  farmer,  as  he 
was, — Edward  would  still  have  differed  so 
from  most  of  the  world.  What  would  he  have 
to  give  then  ?  Or,  would  he  have  been  still 
giving?  Yes,  probably  he  would.  There  was 
Mary  Neal,  with  much  less  ;  but  she  had  some 
thing  to  give  always.  And  when  her  purse 
grew  lighter,  too  light  to  spare  a  copper,  why, 
she  gave  her  strength,  her  sympathy,  her 
prayers,  her  time,  what  she  had, — in  short, 
herself, — the  more  abundantly.  David  Train 
was  not  rich.  Why  should  he  give?  But 
he  could  not  help  thinking,  himself,  what 
a  hard,  cold  place  to  live  in  the  world 
would  probably  be,  if  no  man  cared  more  or 
did  more,  for  his  fellowmen,  than  he  was 
doing.  Where  would  be  Nation  and  State  but 
for  these,  and  thousands  of  others,  who  had 
given  their  lives  for  other  men's  liberties? 
Where  or  whence  came  eternal  life  for  us,  but 
through  -One  who  gave  himself  for  us  ?  "Hereby 


300  UNDER    FRIENDLY    EAVES. 

know  we  love,  because  he  laid  down  His  life 
for  us,  and  we  ought  to  lay  down  our  lives  for 
the  brethren."  The  remembered  words  came 
of  themselves  :  "Beloved.,  if  God  so  loved  us, 
we  also  ought  to  love  one  another." 

The  bobolink  came  back  again,  and  was  sing 
ing  his  happy  carol  over  and  over  in  the  elm. 
But  that  wasn't  the  refrain  that  was  running 
in  David  Train's  mind.  It  was  a  line  or  two 
of  some  homely,  familiar  verses  his  wife  had 
read  aloud  one  evening.  There  was  something 
like  this  in  them  : — 

"If  your  life  ain't  \vorth  nothing  to  other  folks, 
Why,  what's  the  use  of  living?" 

It  was  almost  six  o'clock  when  he  left  the 
quiet  grave-yard.  The  country  teams  were 
coming  back  along  the  winding  road, — hurry 
ing  home,  for  it  was  late,  and  supper  was  to 
sret,  and  the  chores  to  do, — when  he  wont 

O 

homeward  across  the  fields.  His  neighbors 
had  been  thrilled  by  eloquent  words,  and  had 
felt  loyal  and  generous  impulses  stirred  and 
strengthened  within  them.  Grand  orations 

O 

had  been  pronounced  in  many  places  all  around 
him,  but  David  Train  had  heard  none  of  them. 
Yet  his  Memorial  Day  lesson  had  found  him, 
just  the  same.  And  from  that  day  he  began 
to  find  "the  blessedness  there  is  in  loving  and 
giving  and  helping." 


